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» ‘ SAY IT AGAIN,’ 




SAYS I 


r r — 

The Story- 
Book House 

By HONOR WALSH 

Illustrated by J. W. KENNEDY 



Boston ^ DANA ESTES & 
COMPANY ^ Publishers 

L J 



It.'Z 

St 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 


Two Copies Received 

MAY T) '003 


wopyrign^ fcniry 

fS', 

CLASy <X^ XXo. No 

^ 970 ? ■ 


COPY B. 


Copyright, igo^ 

By Dana Estes & Company 


All rights reserved 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 
Published May, 1903 


Colonfal ^re00 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Bostpp, Mass., U. S. A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

The Verandah 

. , 



11 

II. 

The Cobbler’s Heels 

, . 



28 

III. 

Poor Nolly 

. 



49 

IV. 

Nolly’s Gift . 

. , 



60 

V. 

Nolly in Society . 

. 



70 

VI. 

Nolly in the World 

. . 



79 

VII. 

Tad, the Fool 

. . 



86 

VIII. 

Tad’s Fortune 

. 



99 

IX. 

Old Aunt Dooney . 

. 



1 12 

X. 

Uncle Papa’s Violet 

Chapter 



125 

XI. 

Two Water Fables 

. 



131 

XII. 

A Forest Fable, a 

Winter 

Fable, 



AND A Court Fable 

• 



149 

XIII. 

Robin Goodfellow’s Wisdom 



150 

XIV. 

An Irish Fairy Tale 

• • 



165 

XV. 

The Keltic Janius 

• 



173 

XVI. 

One of a Thousand 




184 

XVII. 

The Three Friends 

• 



193 

XVIII. 

An Irish Ghost Story . 



206 

XIX. 

King Fritz’s Giants 

• • 



225 

XX. 

From Lily - land 

• • 



239 

XXI. 

An Easter Egg 

. 



253 

XXII. 

The Christmas Story 

- NIGHT 



271 

XXIII. 

The Queer Child’s Prisoner 



283 

XXIV. 

The Back Porch . 

. 



295 






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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


-*■ 


PAGE 

‘“Say it again,’ says I"''' {See page ioo) Frontispiece 
“ He returned in a few minutes with a 

SILKEN CASKET, WHICH HE PRESENTED ON 

BENDED knee” 46 

“ ‘ Yo’ POOH CREATURE, YO’ DON’ KNOW A FULL 

SET UH mournin’ WHEN YO’ SEES IT . . 1 24 

“‘Hold him fast, don’t let him move’”. . 170 

“ Like a great cat he stole noiselessly up 

BEHIND THE KRAIT - SNAKE ” . . • . . 202 

“She cried out to them to halt” . . *219 

“‘Mamma, isn’t this a perfect bulb?’” . . 243 

“ The commandant received an official packet 

SEALED WITH BLACK ” 288 






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THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE VERANDAH 

Although the historic name of the estate is 
MountStuart, from time out of mind our old 
Maryland colonial residence had been called the 
Storey House. It was in our growing-up days 
that the place became Story-Bookish, and the mis- 
sion of this book is to tell you how. 

Let us go back a few years, and, while we are 
about it, we may as well choose early summer 
as our time of introduction, and the old verandah 
as our standpoint, view-point — what you will. 
That dashing Jacobite cavalier, who left his for- 
feited ancestral home in England to become our 
great-great-great-great-grandfather in Maryland, 
had a pair of bonnie blue eyes in his head, as you 
may see by peeping through the windows into 
the drawing-room, where his portrait by Mignard 


12 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


smiles gaily into the faces of all beholders. Ex- 
cellent eyes, to select a site for his New- World 
home on the brow of a little hill sheltered by 
a wall of mountains, and fronted by a panorama 
of intermountain scenery. Look where you will, 
the horizon is girt with blue, a myriad tender 
shades of azure with scarce a dividing line be- 
tween the cerulean sky and the heaven-hued Blue 
Ridge Mountains. The Potomac dances in the 
June sunlight; the road skirts our grounds, and 
the bank of the river is just across the road. 
Our little boat-house is there yet, but the new 
bank-steps Uncle Papa made for us one memo- 
rable day are sadly weather-worn now. 

The garden runs down to the thorn hedge: it 
is a tangle of roses, you observe. Grandmamma 
Storey was passionately fond of the royal flowers, 
— I think that there must be as many as fifty of 
her potpourri jars about the house. As you see, 
the Crimson Ramblers have hidden the tall col- 
umns of our verandah; you may look upon our 
Blue Mountain landscapes through frames of rosy 
sweetness. Our grounds are not remarkably well 
kept, but we like their wildness. (Recollect, I 
am writing of our childish days. Our grown-up 
“ improvements ” belong to the Back Porch 
Chapter.) In the old slavery days it is likely 
that the paths were gravelled, the lawns shorn 
into a green velvet sward, and the shrubbery 


THE VERANDAH 


13 


clipped to trimness, — but that was long before 
my time. Sandy Andy, who acted as coachman 
and general utility, did his best with the garden 
and orchard in the little time left at his disposal, 
and he managed to keep one pretty fair stretch 
of lawn for our games of tennis and croquet. But 
for his care, the setting of the Story-Book House 
might have relapsed into the primeval wilderness. 

Indeed, as you may guess, we were very much 
better off than were the greater number of South- 
ern families after the war. Among our own 
neighbors were ladies and gentlemen of the 
luxurious old days, left absolutely homeless and 
penniless, living on the charity of friends, or 
upon a pittance earned by inexperienced attempts 
to labor with their poor, inefficient, aristocratic 
hands. We held our old home, although Grand- 
papa rented most of the land to a tenant farmer 
who kept our larder well supplied. Grandmamma 
Storey’s Irish inheritance made ample provision 
for “ the four little Storeys,” so even though 
MountStuart had lost the splendors of its ancient 
prosperity, we had enough and to spare for all 
our needs. 

It is quite as easy to raise the dead and to 
transport the distant as it is to turn back the 
pages of time. Let me summon for your inspec- 
tion the people of the Story-Book House. 

Grandpapa first. A tall, grave, scholarly gentle- 


14 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


man with a stern, handsome face, and keen blue 
eyes. He had been a colonel in the Confederate 
cavalry, and looked it. Although he stood to us 
in place of father and mother, he was not the 
least bit indulgent; indeed, for years, he seemed 
to resent our very existence. Em afraid that we 
loved Nana better in the old days. 

Nana was our dear old nurse. She was as 
old as Grandpapa; she had been Grandmamma’s 
own maid in Ireland. Grandmamma Storey was 
an Irish lady, niece of Sir Arthur Manus of 
Castlemanus, a great beauty in her day, and an 
heiress as well. Grandpapa had wooed and won 
her when he was United States consul at Dublin. 
They had been married only a short time when 
our great Civil War broke out and Grandpapa 
came back to wear the gray of the Lost Cause. 
Dear Grandmamma Storey died when I was seven 
years old, only a few weeks after that dreadful 
day when we knew that we had lost papa and 
mamma. Ever afterward, Nana had been every- 
thing to us, — mother, grandmother, nurse, house- 
keeper, seamstress, — yes, and instructor, too. 
Very little did Nana know of letters; her knowl- 
edge was the wisdom of a loving, loyal heart. 
We should have learned many a lesson from this 
faithful servitor; I hope we did. Certainly she 
taught us more than did any of the poverty- 
stricken gentlewomen, to whom Grandpapa now 


THE VERANDAH 


15 


and then entrusted our education. Those poor 
amateur governesses, what hopelessly pathetic 
failures they were ! I shall say no more of them, 
gentle, helpless, unpractical Southern ladies, 
vainly trying to fit themselves to new conditions. 
As for Nana, her real name was Hannah Lynch, 
but Frank had renamed his nurse in the lisping 
days of his babyhood, and “ Nana ” she remained 
to the end of her life. 

The Student ” was Nana’s nephew, — or was 
it grandnephew ? He was “ Aily’s boy ” anyway, 
but Nana had sister and sister’s daughter Aily, 
and which of these Aileens was mother of our 
Student I can’t recollect now. We used to laugh 
slyly at Nana when she spoke of Aily’s ‘‘ Stew- 
dent ; ” little snobs that we were, we felt highly 
amused at the idea of Nurse Nana’s owning a 
scholarly nephew. We even went so far as to 
joke about the matter to Grandpapa, who very 
promptly and properly snubbed us for our pains. 

** Only think, she calls him a ‘ stewdent,’ 
Grandpapa! ” said I, with a superior little air. 

Only think ! our Irish nurse knows how to 
give value to the U,” replied the old gentleman, 
with the sarcastic little smile so confusing to my 
sense of self-importance. ‘‘ Pity she cannot learn 
to say ‘ stoodent ’ in the peculiar dialect of a little 
American girl ! ” 

That was the first time Grandpapa heard of the 


i6 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Student. A long time — maybe a whole year — 
afterward, Nana received a letter containing 
troublesome news. The Student was ailing; it 
would be necessary for him to leave Ireland, 
where the climate was too damp for his lungs. 
The next letter was more consoling to Nana; 
Joseph James was coming to America for the 
benefit of his health. 

In due time the Student arrived. He was tall, 
thin, red-haired, with a consumptive little stoop 
to his shoulders. He had very bright dark blue 
eyes, and he spoke with quite the richest voice I 
had ever heard. He had tea with us in the 
nursery on the evening of his arrival, and he 
readily won our story-loving hearts by telling 
us a whole “ bagful ” of fairy-tales. We did not 
concern ourselves about his scholarship ; the 
Student wasn’t the least little bit pedantic, but 
Grandpapa found him out. 

It was this way : Grandpapa met me in the hall 
the morning after the Student’s first visit. In 
his hand he held an open book, — a small, dingy 
volume printed in queer characters. 

** I found this on the hall table. Who has been 
here ? ” Grandpapa spoke in tones of unwonted 
animation; plainly he was interested. 

I took the book and turned to the fly-leaf. 

Joseph James Cleary,” I read. ‘‘ Oh, that must 
be the Student ! He was here last night.” 


THE VERANDAH 


17 


Who was here? ” 

The Student — Nana’s nephew, you know, 
Grandpapa. Don’t you recollect — ? ” 

But my grandfather was hurrying up the stairs, 
and I, following, reached the nursery in time to 
hear him questioning Nana. 

“ Your nephew, this is his book? he is a Greek 
scholar? ” 

“ Ah, then, but he’s every kind of a scholar, sir, 
and that’s his book I don’t doubt, if it’s a scholar’s 
book.” Nana was sublime in her pride of kinship 
with the Student. 

A Greek Testament!” muttered Grandpapa, 
turning the leaves rapidly. “ H’m ! I should like 
to meet this young man, to meet him, to meet him 
at dinner, you know.” 

Nana flushed with proud delight. Grandpapa 
was extremely particular about his dinner-guests. 
I was a little surprised. I had not then fathomed 
the depth of my grandfather’s veneration for 
mental attainments; I recollected only that the 
Malsters and the Rollyers and the Loomings and 
the other lately wealthy folk who had really 
brought prosperity to Storeytown, had met with 
no courtesies from “ the first gintleman of the 
county,” as Nana styled my father’s father. I 
recalled, too, with a sense of grievance, that 
neither Frank nor I had ever had the honor of 
dining with Grandpapa. He could not stand im- 


i8 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


mature society; he had no patience with super- 
ficiality, purse-pride, chit-chat; in truth, he was 
not easy to please, and preferred solitude to irk- 
some companionship. Even Madame dined with 
him only on her days of arrival and departure. 
I had thought him proud, and yet here he was 
treating the Student as an equal, — the poor 
Student whose very passage-money had been paid 
by our old nurse. 

That was the beginning of a friendship that 
never faltered. Grandpapa was never so happy 
as when the Student came to the old house. He 
always spent his vacations at MountStuart, the 
honored guest of the master. Night after night 
they pored over old books and manuscripts. If 
memory serves me well, I think they went into 
Chaldean-Semitic “ inscriptions ” during that first 
vacation. Greek, Latin, and Hebrew they were 
past masters in — at least I supposed so. I 
know now that the Student was a natural-born 
delver into the lore of dead ages. Yet how few 
connect his name with that sort of thing nowa- 
days ! He is the famous pulpit orator, the fluent 
discourser on social topics, the energetic reformer 
of municipal abuses, — ay de mi ! I am wander- 
ing from the verandah of the Story-Book House. 
The dear old house! ... Well .. . 

The Student suddenly dropped the dead lan- 
guages, and began to study Chinese. My grand- 


THE VERANDAH 


19 


father followed him with unnaturally beautiful 
patience. The hideous India-ink hieroglyphs were 
disposed of in time, and then there was another 
change. The Student was finding himself. He 
gave up the idea of going on a mission to the 
heathen of the Orient; he had found pagans 
a-plenty at home. Immediately after his ordina- 
tion he began his life-work. We seldom saw him 
then, but when Grandpapa began to take trips to 
the city, we guessed that he was going to seek 
Aily’s boy.’’ 

Needless to say, by that time we were more 
than convinced of the Student’s intellect ; indeed, 
we considered him a heaven-born genius ; nothing 
inferior could have so moved our immovable 
grandfather. Frank was growing up, but Frank’s 
talents made little or no impression on the old 
gentleman. After all, you know, Frank is more 
dexterous than deep-thoughted. Oh, yes, I admit 
the brilliancy of that Congressional speech. . . . 
Again I am going away from the verandah. 
Halte-la! . . . All that the verandah must do 
is to introduce the people of the Story-Book 
House as they were, — as they were ! The Stu- 
dent is a story in himself, but I need say no 
more of him here than that he was a capital story- 
teller ! 

Uncle Papa ” was a thin little man of forty, 
perhaps ; a native of Alsace-Lorraine. He owned 


20 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


a nice little cottage and garden on the road 
between the Story-Book House and the town, 
Storeytown. He had been soldier, sailor, and 
merchant in his time. A little money had come 
to him suddenly, for he had saved nothing. The 
money was either pension or salvage, I am not 
certain which, but, small though the sum was, 
dear Uncle Papa had never had so much before at 
one time. In a fit of providence, aided by a 
longing for the green countryside, he had bought 
the little mountain home for a mere song. He 
had a miniature farm in his tiny field, which 
yielded enough produce for his simple wants, 
and, sitting outside his cottage door on a summer 
evening, playing the fiddle, or up at the Story- 
Book House on the hill spinning yarns for the 
little fatherless children, he was the happiest man 
of his size in this great world. 

We introduced ourselves to Uncle Papa a few 
weeks after he had settled on the mountainside, 
— introduced ourselves by breaking the traces 
just as we passed his gate. Frank was driving; 
Madame and I sat on the back seat of our old 
surrey, and Madame, who, for a Southern woman, 
was singularly nervous about horses, screamed in 
deadly fear when Frank nonchalantly noticed the 
little accident. In another moment the dark, thin 
little stranger stood beside the carriage, his broad- 
brimmed hat in his hand. Madame had cried, 


THE VERANDAH 


21 


Mon Dieut ” and so Uncle Papa said, Bon- 
jour, Madame” and Permettez-moi” as he 
stepped forward to examine the harness. But 
presently he spoke in excellent English, assuring 
us of the trifling nature of the mishap, which 
indeed he remedied in a very few minutes with 
one of his wonderful knives. Uncle Papa had a 
whole arsenal of ingeniously contrived pocket- 
knives; by and by we had so much confidence in 
his ‘‘ handiness ” that we were quite convinced 
that he manufactured every one of them himself. 

Dear Uncle Papa ! he was only too clever. As 
the phrase goes, he could turn his hand to any- 
thing; therefore he turned it to everything, and 
a constantly turning hand cannot retain much 
money. He could sing a song, paint a picture, 
write a sonnet, cook a dinner, make a speech, or 
play the violin, and he did each and all with 
uniform ability — which is not saying much, you 
understand. 

In a very short time we became fast friends. 
In truth. Uncle Papa was more than friend; he 
was our good comrade, our jolly playmate. 
Grandpapa took little notice of him; whenever 
he encountered him he treated him with contemp- 
tuous tolerance, as one who kept the troublesome 
children from bothering the head of the house. 

Brose gave our dear friend his familiar title. 
His right name, you must know, was Adolph 


22 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Papelonne. During our Alsatian neighbor’s sec- 
ond visit, and just after he had told us a story 
in his own charming way, little Brose made a 
speech. Said he to Monsieur Papelonne : 

“ Misser Papa-alone, your name is too big. 
We have no papa, we have no nuncle; we are 
alone, on’y for Gran’pa and Nana-dear, and we 
love you. Won’t you be our Nuncle Papa?” 

To Uncle Papa we owed much of the happiness 
of our childhood. He got Grandpapa’s permis- 
sion to arrange birthday parties for us, and mid- 
summer picnics and Christmas festivities. Nana, 
who had mistrusted his foreign ways at first, was 
soon won by his devotion to her darlings. He 
was so willing to help the cook, that, even when 
cross Miranda was in charge. Uncle Papa was 
free of the kitchen. 

Never was a feast that he did not make more 
festal — dear Uncle Papa ! What wonderful 
yellow roses he could carve out of turnips ! How 
entirely delightful were his birds’ nests of jelly, 
with globules of blanc-mange to represent the 
eggs! And such funny Chinese gentlemen as he 
constructed from oranges and bananas were never 
seen. I’m sure, even in China! 

But his stories — ah, his stories were the best 
of his accomplishments, after all! We all agreed 
that the very choicest of illustrated books could 
not come up to Uncle Papa’s spoken narratives. 


THE VERANDAH 


23 


For his gestures were the best illustrations pos- 
sible: watching his hands, you could see the 
characters run or walk or dance or sleep or quar- 
rel or whatever they were doing in the story of 
the moment. His eyes would widen with wonder 
or narrow with cunning; his cheeks would puff 
out in a boast or draw in with a whine, and as 
for his voice, it held every imaginable range of 
emotion that could make the sentiment of a tale 
better or worse as the case might call for. 

A story without Uncle Papa’s gestures, ex- 
pressions, and inflections is better than no story 
at all, of course. But when I think of the charm 
of his narration, when I recollect that the com- 
monest of primer fables had a peculiar thrill of 
interest when told by him, I am almost tempted 
not to relate any of his stories. 

Grandpapa, Nana, the Student, Uncle Papa. 
Next comes Madame, or Grandme, as we called 
her. Perhaps I am wrong to say that Grandpapa 
merely tolerated Uncle Papa, because his feeling 
for Madame Gratiot was only toleration, and 
I’m very sure he treated Uncle Papa with more 
friendship than he ever showed Madame, to whom 
his bearing was frigidly polite, nothing more. 
Madame, so self-styled, was an elderly maiden 
lady from New Orleans, dear dead mamma’s own 
aunt, our grandaunt, and a Creole to the finger- 
tips. She was not a regular member of our 


24 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


family, but she came twice a year, and each time 
she remained with us for two months. 

I know now that Grandpapa thought Madame 
should have made her home with us. He knew 
that our peculiar household required a lady’s 
management, and naturally he supposed that 
mamma’s nearest relative would take an affection- 
ate interest in the motherless little flock. But 
indeed, Nana was better than any “ Madame 
Grandme.” 

When Grandme was with us she was very kind. 
She taught us French and deportment and old- 
fashioned dancing. She was a very pretty, well- 
preserved, dressy little lady ; Uncle Papa adored 
her in respectful silence. When she was not 
with us, she was visiting her half-sister in Quebec, 
or her “ step-grandnephew ” in New Orleans. 

‘‘ I so dislike to leave my pretty Estelle’s 
pretty ones,” she used to say. ‘‘ But what will 
you have ? I must share my time with the others ; 
I cannot be selfish.” 

Was Grandme really unselfish? I cannot say; 
I know that she spent the winter in New Orleans, 
where it was nice and warm; the summer in 
Quebec, where it was nice and cool; and the 
spring and autumn in our mountain home, where 
it was nice and balmy. But she liked to be nice, 
our Grandme. 

When she came on her semi-annual visit, Nana 


THE VERANDAH 


25 


always had the second-best room ready for her, 
— Grandpapa occupied the best, of course, — and 
the keys of the house were placed on her dressing- 
table, Nana voluntarily and most generously re- 
signing all charge during the Madame’s stay. 
There were many fine ladies in the world not half 
so finely principled as our Nana, let me tell you, 
and well Grandpapa knew it. 

Other occasional were Captain Storey, our 
second cousin, and his sister, Mrs. Campion, a 
fashionable lady from Washington, who paid us 
a brief visit now and then. Then there were the 
Curtises, our New York connections, and the 
Babbingtons from Richmond, and the Websters 
from Philadelphia, and other kinsfolk who came 
now and then to the house on the mountain, 
whose master was “ so eccentric ” that he did not 
care for society. Perhaps my grandfather was 
eccentric in his preference for solitude; if so, 
he had his troublous reasons. 

And this brings me at last to papa and mamma. 
When Nellie, our youngest, was only a year old, 
mamma was very delicate. It was winter-time, 
and quite cold on the mountain. So papa thought 
it would do her good to go home to New Orleans 
and spend a few months with her mother. At 
the last moment they decided to leave the baby 
with Grandmamma Storey and Nana. Grand- 
papa accompanied papa and mamma to Washing- 


26 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


ton, where they took the train for the South. He 
never saw his only son or his son’s wife again. 

No, they were not killed in a railway accident; 
they were victims of the epidemic of yellow fever 
which slew its thousands that dreadful year. 
Grandmamma Gratiot, mamma, and papa died 
within a week. Grandpapa Storey shut himself 
up in his room for three days after the terrible 
news came to him, but dear Grandmamma 
Storey — I recollect her perfectly — went about 
her duties with a brave little smile on her lips, and 
tried hard to love us for father and mother and 
all. But her heart had been wrapped up in papa, 
her only son, her only child. And when every 
one saw that sorrow was making Grandpapa cold 
and stern, no one but Nana knew that Grand- 
mamma was smiling to hide her tears, and even 
Nana could not guess that her dearly loved lady 
was dying of grief. 

Now for ourselves. Nellie, always our baby, 
regularly beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed, daz- 
zlingly fair, with Grandmamma Storey’s noble 
features, and dear mamma’s tiny, slim, arched 
feet and infantine hands. She is sometimes called 
the Maryland Beauty no-wadays, but as a matter 
of fact, she is not at all a Southern type. Frank, 
who is quite proud of his beauty-sister, says that 
she is like a very lovely English girl with a 
French finish. 


THE VERANDAH 


27 


Brose was only a year older than Nellie, — he 
had been called Ambrose, after papa, and he was 
the dearest, most winsomely blundering little boy 
that ever gladdened a lonely house. . . . Oh, 
Brose, Brose, my brother ! . . . Dearie, I see you 
in every corner of your own Story-Book House. 
. . . I wonder if you know? 

Calvert Cecil was the little brother who came 
between Brose and me; named for Grandpapa, 
to us he was a family name, and nothing more : 
he died in his cradle, a month-old babe, when 
Frank and I were too young to store remem- 
brances. 

Frank is my senior by three years. In the 
Story-Book days he was a fine, fair, handsome, 
self-confident boy ; I, a dark, slim, pale, shy little 
girl, and we had other points of difference, which 
you may discover before we reach the Back Porch 
epilogue of the Story-Book House. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE cobbler's HEELS 

Sometimes Grandpapa would trouble himself 
so far as to help us in our historical readings. 
One winter he laid out a course of French history 
for us, and when Madame came in the spring she 
was highly pleased with the progress we had 
made. “ It is well for you, my pets, to know the 
glory of your ancestral country,” she said. 

“ But that’s England,” said Frank. Sir 
Francis Storey — ” 

“ Ireland,” put in Nana, “ Sir Arthur 
Manus — ” 

France,” asserted Madame, sweetly. The 
Vicomte de Gratiot, founder of the family in 
Louisiana, came from Perpignan.” 

But we corned from Maryland,” said Brose, 
stoutly. We’re ’Mericans, we are.” 

We’re a mixture, surely,” said I. ‘‘ English, 
Irish, French — ” 

And Spanish,” continued Madame Grandme. 

Your ancestor crossed the Pyrenees for his 

28 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


29 


bride, Juanita de Villena, daughter of the brave 
Castilian hidalgo, Don Fernando de Villena. A 
mixture, yes, Estelle, but a mixture of the best! 
What the French call creme de la creme, cream of 
creams, as we might say,” she explained, turning 
to Nana. 

“ Just so,” agreed our old nurse. The Ma- 
nuses would be the richest cream o’ the lot, I 
do be thinking, real old gentry ! — though I 
make no doubt the Spanish cream’d be the 
yellowest like. But it’s true for the Student, 
there must be a-many a word alike in French 
and Irish. Sure, the common people in Ireland 
say ‘ crame ’ for cream, — think o’ that ! ” Nana 
cherished a firm belief in the correctness of her 
own accent, and, indeed, her brogue was of the 
slightest. 

Now and then, when Uncle Papa came to see 
us, we were anxious to show him how much we 
knew about La Patrie, and we made him talk to 
us about the France that was and the France 
that is. How delightedly he hailed our interest 
in a subject so ever-dear to him ! Sometimes he 
would tell us a story of your lesson-times, mes 
enfants.” One of these tales was what the 
Student, who was listening, dubbed “ an elevat- 
ing narrative.” I think that the title given to 
the story by Uncle Papa was The Rise of the 


30 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Sieur Gaston de Lallier.” As I am retailing the 
tale I shall rename it also. I am not fond of' 
long names. 

THE cobbler's HEELS 

Long ago France and Brittany were separated. 
It was not until the sole heiress of Brittany, the 
young and beautiful Duchess Anne, was wedded 
to the French King Charles the Eighth that the 
nations were gloriously reunited. The little 
Breton duchess, lame though she was, made a 
most queenly young queen. By and by a baby 
prince came to gladden the royal household, and 
every one was delighted, — the Ugly King, the 
pretty queen, and the loyal people. So you may 
be certain that there was mourning all over the 
land when the so-wel corned child of France fell 
sick and died ! 

Yet some there were that were not ill-pleased 
when the royal pair were left childless. You 
must know that, although the Ugly King had 
many virtues, he lacked the crown virtue of 
popularity. He was no favorite. And so, a few 
far-seeing folk said, one to another ; 

If le bon Dieu sends no other prince to 
our gracious young queen. Prince Louis d’Or- 
leans, whom we all love, must become king 
when the Ugly King dies. Shall we lose fair 
Brittany then, think you ? Ah, well ! it is worth 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


31 


even so great a loss to have once more a kingly 
king. For Louis is a gallant prince, and he will 
wear the French crown right royally ! ” 

In Brittany, Anne’s subjects cared little for 
the Ugly King. The marriage had not pleased 
them; they preferred the independence of Brit- 
tany to the glory of France. And if the young 
queen should return, a childless widow, every- 
thing would be as it had been. 

One fair day, two Breton lads, Jean Duval 
and Gaston Lallier, were watching sheep upon a 
hillside overlooking the beautiful old town of 
Rennes. The boys were clad in the coarse yet 
picturesque attire of the Breton peasantry, which, 
even down to this age of no-color, is the gayest 
costume imaginable. The Bretons believe in 
brilliant dyes, mes enfants! 

After a long, meditative silence, Gaston, the 
younger of the two, spoke. Said he : 

‘‘Jean, what wouldst thou be?” 

“ I ? Alack, and save your little wit, good 
Monsieur Donaught, I would fain be what I am, 
and what my father is.” 

“A shepherd?” 

“ Ay, a shepherd. Hark ye, friend, an ye need 
not mouth the word so scorningly, or perchance 
ye may see that I can turn this my shepherd’s 
crook into a fitting cudgel ! ” 


32 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Gaston looked steadily at the older boy, and 
made no sign of anger as he answered : 

“ Thou wouldst fain be what thy father is, 
Jean? Of a truth, I have never seen my god- 
father so choleric ! ” 

Big sixteen-year old Jean flushed at the rebuke 
so quietly and courageously administered by the 
girlish-looking lad of twelve. 

Right, right, boy ! ” he cried, hastily. Let’s 
have no more on’t. Thou art concerned about 
mine occupation. What is thine to be?” 

The boy sighed, and dug his sabot into the soil. 

“If son must follow father, then must I be a 
cobbler of shoes,” he said, bitterly. “ But, oh ! 
what would I not be, what would I not be if I 
could?” 

“What?” queried a new voice. Jean was 
watching his sheep none the less carefully that 
he half-reclined upon the grassy slope while he 
held his offlce. Gaston lay at full length, his 
head supported with one hand in his usual 
dreamy fashion. He rose with easy courtesy to 
greet the newcomer. 

It was Pierre Duval, the father of Jean, an old 
man clad in a coarse smock-frock. His eyes were 
soft and tender for all his watching of many 
flocks, and he looked kindly at Gaston. 

. “ What would’st thou not be ? ” he repeated. 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


33 

“If I had my way, good Father Duval, 1 
would not be the shoemaker of Rennes.” 

The old shepherd smiled indulgently. 

“ St. Crispin was a shoemaker,” he said, “ and 
the good St. Joseph was a carpenter.” 

“ And St. Louis was a king ! ” supplemented 
the boy, quietly. 

Old Pierre stared, but Jean chuckled. 

“ This stripling would fain take a royal road 
to heaven,” he said. 

“ What ails the lad ? ” asked Pierre. 

“ He — oh, he hath been touched with a court 
fever. He saw a cavalcade pass through yon 
town yestere’en, and the falfals have pleased his 
fancy.” 

“ Ah,” said the father, musingly, “ he should 
have seen the Lady Anne when she held court at 
Rennes.” 

“ I remember her ! ” broke in Gaston. “ So 
good, so beautiful! She rode on a white pal- 
frey and her long hair was braided with gold. I 
was but six years old, and my father lifted me up 
to see, and I cried out that it was our Blessed 
Lady come down from heaven, and the young 
duchess heard me, and saw me, and she would 
have me brought near her, and she kissed me, 
and then she rode away with the Ugly King. 
And I — oh, I would give all my hopes but to 
be a page in her train ! ” 


34 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


The old shepherd’s practised eyes were upon 
the browsing sheep. He turned them once more 
to the impulsive lad. “ My little Gaston,” he 
said, “ it is not seemly for a Breton boy to wish 
to be a French page. My Jean hath no relish for 
the life that wears a court livery, and yet thou 
hungerest for it.” 

Ay,” put in Big Jean, ‘‘ he thinks of the 
brocade and the sarcenet and a curling plume 
in a velvet cap. He is half-maiden, this Gaston.” 

“ Not he,” said Pierre. “ Say, rather, he is 
half-child. Yea, but it is brave, the royal show, 
and our Lady Anne is queen in good sooth of 
France and of Brittany. But for her pages 
will she have none but those of noble blood 
unless — ” 

He paused, and Gaston, with quick comprehen- 
sion, supplied the exception. 

Unless one should render her a good ser- 
vice?” he hazarded. 

The old man smiled approvingly. 

“ Well understood ! ” he cried. My little 
Gaston, these old arms have held our queen 
many a time and oft, for Jean’s mother, blessed 
be her soul in heaven ! was the nurse of Lady 
Anne. It so happened,” he went on, carefully 
choosing his words, It so happened that I was 
able to render a good service to the old duke 
when our royal duchess was yet a child. The 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


35 


secret of that service is — buried with him, — 
and so shall it be buried with me, but unto his 
daughter he said these words : ‘You will grant 
to Father Duval whatever he shall ask.’ Ten 
times did she send for me, and each time would 
she say : ‘ And what do you want now. Father 
Duval ? ’ And I, for the good God had provided 
me with plenty of sheep and plenty of grass, I 
answered her always that I wanted for nothing. 
And yet for thee I will ask a boon if thou wilt 
be guided by me.” 

Gaston’s eyes sparkled. He was a comely lad, 
tall for his twelve years and erect as a sycamore. 
His doublet was of coarse scarlet homespun, but 
he wore it with the grace of childhood. The 
upland breeze blew his bright, rough hair about 
his ears, framing a face of maidenly beauty. 

“ Godfather Duval ! ” he cried, clasping his 
slender hands, “ I promise thee my submission ! ” 

“ Good! ” said Pierre. “ Now list to me. The 
service that I rendered to my lord the duke I 
could not have done had I been but a tender of 
sheep. In my youth my father said to me : ‘ Thou 
must learn two crafts, so that if one shall fail 
thee, thou canst tuyn to another. I will teach 
thee to care for my sheep, but something else 
must thou know.’ 

“ And I, obeying him, went to Bourget, the 
armorer, and from him I learned to fashion the 


36 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


steel plates into battle attire. The advice of my 
father I have given to my son, and Jean is as 
much farrier as shepherd. Thou shalt be page to 
our gracious queen, and thou shalt also be — '' 

‘‘ An armorer ? ” 

Nay, a maker of shoes.’’ 

Gaston hung his head in disappointment for a 
minute. When he looked up his face was clouded, 
and when he spoke there was a sob in his voice. 

I have promised, and to my promise will I 
cleave, godfather. And yet I need not say that 
I cannot learn to make shoes in a week, nay, 
nor in a month.” 

“ I will give thee a year,” said Pierre. Yes, 
yes, I know thou wouldst fain be away with the 
gay court, and if thou art still of the same mind 
at the year’s end, I will take thee myself to Paris, 
where I have a kinsman. Eh, but thou must 
make for him a brave pair of shoes, red, with 
trimmings of gilt. So shall I judge thy skill, 
my godson.” 

‘‘ Be it so,” said Gaston, firmly. ‘‘ I thank 
you, godfather. I will begin my apprenticeship 
at once — good day! ” 

Jean and his father watched the light figure 
until it disappeared behind a distant cottage. 

“ A handsome stripling,” commented the old 
man. ‘‘ Methinks our royal lady will needs be 
proud of her Breton page.” 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


37 


“Ay,” said Jean; “yet it seems to me but a 
poor ambition for a Breton to dance attendance 
at the court of the Ugly King of France.” 

“ The Ugly King hath a lovely queen,” replied 
Pierre. “ ’Twas a thousand pities that the little 
Dauphin should have died. There was one, half- 
French, half-Breton, who would have been a 
king indeed. But the good God knows best.” 

“ The good God did not will Brittany to be 
joined to France,” said sturdy Jean. “ And if 
the Ugly King should die, there is no little 
Dauphin to prevent the queen from leaving 
France and returning to rule Brittany.” 

“ Truly, it is a world of changes,” murmured 
the old man. “ Where the fagots blazed around 
Jeanne, the shepherdess of blessed memory, they 
have placed bronzes in her honor, so doth my 
kinsman Gallon tell me, and he hath travelled 
much.” 

“ One need not travel to see changes,” said 
Jean ; “ surely it is a change when Sir Gaston 
becomes Sir Cobbler ! ” 

“ Sir Gaston,” to the astonishment and delight 
of his father, worked faithfully and well. In a 
few months he had mastered all the difficulties of 
Crispin’s craft, and so delicate was his touch and 
so excellent his fancy that Lallier Pere set him 
upon the orders for the gentry — shoes of bro- 
cade, of silk, and of satin, broad-toed and puffed 


38 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


for the knights, and daintily pointed for the 
ladies. 

One day Gaston paused in his work. He had 
finished a pair of pale blue satin buskins for the 
Dame du Mornay, and was lacing the eyelets 
with a silver cord. 

“ Father,” said he, '' didst ever make shoes for 
the queen ? ” 

Nicholas Lallier sighed. 

Nay, not for the queen,” he replied. ‘‘ She 
hath her court cordonnier, a Parisian artist truly. 
When she was Duchess of Brittany, she asked 
one day for the shoemaker of Rennes. I was 
taken to her. ‘ I mind me,’ said she, ‘ not to 
trust these false French, even with the making 
of my footgear. You, Lallier, shall make me a 
Breton pair of shoes.’ 

“ And with that she gave me a piece of 
brocade, and I took my measurements with a 
doubting heart. I had not thy taste, boy, and 
I knew that she who had had the best workman- 
ship of the clever French would flout mine effort. 
Yet mine not to reason, but to obey. I made the 
shoes with scrupulous care, and I carried them 
to her.” 

He stopped suddenly. 

‘‘Well?” cried Gaston, deeply interested. 
“ Prythee, go on, father.” 

“ Our gracious lady hath a quick temper,” said 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


39 


Nicholas, apologetically; “ she was then but six- 
teen, and she took the shoes in her hand and she 
flung them at my pate.” 

He rubbed his head so ruefully at the recollec- 
tion that Gaston, respectful and filial though he 
was, could not refrain from laughing. 

‘‘ And the hotlines f ” he said. 

I took them back with me. She bade me keep 
them ; she would have none o’ them.” 

Nicholas put down the baker’s sabot, upon 
which he had been working, and, reaching to a 
shelf above his head, he drew down a parcel 
wrapped in a linen cloth. Carefully undoing it, 
he brought to view the abused shoes. They were 
of a rich yellow brocade, and he had laced them 
with vivid grass green. It was not a happy com- 
bination. 

“Ah!” cried Gaston, “they should have been 
laced with blue or with scarlet, father. But of a 
surety, the hotlines are too small ? ” 

“ Nay, the Lady Anne hath a tiny foot, but 
she liked not the fashion of the insoles. I had 
forgot her lameness and I had not padded the 
left shoe.” 

Gaston examined the little shoes lovingly. 

“ I should like to make a pair,” he said. 

And then he spoke to his father of his hopes, 
and how Godfather Duval had promised to take 
him to Paris as soon as he should be able to 


40 . 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


fashion a pair of red shoes for the Burgher 
Gallon. 

Contrary to Gaston’s expectations, Nicholas 
Lallier was enthusiastic over the project. 

“ Thou art skilled enough now, my good lad,” 
he said. “ I will get thee whatever seemeth right. 
Would thy mother had lived to see her pretty 
stripling at the court of the queen ! ” >. 

So the scarlet leather shoes were made, and 
Gaston brought them for inspection to his god- 
father. They were cunningly slashed, and puffed 
with satin of silver gray, and the flaps were gor- 
geous in gilt. 

The shoes for thy kinsman ! ” announced the 
boy, placing them on the table in the shepherd’s 
cottage. 

“ It is scarce six months since we spoke of it,” 
said Pierre, “and I gave thee a year. Yet am 
I pleased with the work,” he continued, “ and 
my promise will I keep. So it would beseem us 
to prepare for the journey.” 

But even as he was speaking. Big Jean entered, 
his usually stolid manner ruffled to excitement. 
“ I have come from the castle gate,” he said, 
“ where a courier is just arrived from Amboise. 
King Charles is dead ! ” 

His listeners sprang to their feet. “ The King 
of France! ” cried Pierre. 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


41 

The Ugly King ! ” exclaimed Gaston, at the 
same instant. 

“ Ay,” said Jean; “ we are Bretons once more. 
The queen will come to Rennes.” 

‘‘And our journey?” queried Gaston, looking 
at his godfather wistfully. 

“ We must await the Lady Anne,” decided 
Pierre. 

Months passed, however, before Anne of Brit- 
tany visited her native place. At last it was 
announced that she was coming, and for a time 
the tradesmen of Rennes were kept busy in mak- 
ing preparations for her reception. Nicholas 
Lallier and his son visited the mercer and the 
tailor to give orders for a costume of fine wool 
designed by Gaston himself, who hated the glar- 
ing reds and greens and purples beloved by the 
peasants of Brittany. The doublet was of soft 
buff color and the long hose were blue. His 
jaunty cap was blue and his shoes, made by 
himself, were little masterpieces of tawny lamb- 
skin. 

“ Long legs, blue eyes, hair of gold, — a blue 
and golden boy ! ” said the tailor’s wife, admir- 
ingly. “ Our little Breton is like an English 
prince ! ” 

With his usual sense, Pierre Duval waited until 
the tumult was over and the queen with her 
ladies had withdrawn into the castle before he 


42 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


presented Gaston. His name was sufficient pass- 
port, and with the boy, he soon stood in the 
presence of the ex-Queen of France. Anne was 
still in mourning, and never had she appeared 
more beautiful. She was then two and twenty, 
imperious, yet kind. 

“Welcome, my good old friend!” she cried. 
The old man knelt and kissed her extended hand. 
I'hen he rose and brought Gaston forward. An 
involuntary murmur of admiration broke from 
the group of ladies behind the queen. Anne’s 
dark eyes softened. 

“ A comely stripling ! ” she exclaimed. 

There was a flush on Gaston’s smooth cheeks, 
and his blue eyes were brilliant with excitement. 
He swept his cap backward, and bent his knee, 
in true knightly fashion, to his chosen ladye. 
Anne placed her little hand caressingly on his 
bright head. 

“His name?” she queried. 

“ Gaston Lallier, your Majesty,” said Pierre. 

“ A good name,” she mused, “ and yet it 
seemeth, somehow, incomplete ; Lallier ! ” 

“ The. name is scarce familiar to your Majesty,” 
ventured Pierre. “ The lad is the son of the 
shoemaker of Rennes.” 

The queen looked annoyed. 

“ This lad ? ” she exclaimed, incredulously. 
“ Why, Harry of England would be proud of 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


43 

such a son! Nay, good Father Duval, this is 
never a child of the people.” 

“ He is the son of Lallier the shoemaker,” 
affirmed the old man. 

Eh, I remember that man,” said the queen, 
laughing. I flung a pair of shoes at his head in 
this very castle. Thou’rt in brave attire for a 
cobbler’s son, young sir I ” 

Gaston blushed hotly and looked appealingly 
at his godfather. Pierre advanced to the rescue 
at once. 

“ Your Majesty’s noble father,” said he, “ re- 
quested me to ask a boon at the hands of his 
daughter.” 

He did, he did,” said Anne, “ and ready have 
I ever been to grant it.” 

“ That prompts me to go on,” the shepherd 
responded, ‘‘ and now I would ask your Majesty 
to give this, my godson, a place in your house- 
hold.” 

A shoemaker’s son ! ” murmured Anne. 

Pierre was old, but his ears were sharp. 

'' I ask pardon,” he cried. “ I see the thing 
is impossible.” And he bowed as if to withdraw. 

“ Stay ! ” cried Anne. “ I grant it. And 
more, I will say this to thee. Father Duval, that 
if the young Breton prove loyal, his future ad- 
vancement shall be my care.” 

“ My lady,” cried Pierre, earnestly, relapsing 


44 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


into the address of long ago, “ I dare swear he 
will be true ! ” 

In such manner was Gaston received into the 
queen’s household; and when Anne left Rennes 
the shoemaker and the shepherd kissed the boy 
farewell with tears of joy, Big Jean looking on 
grumpily. 

Gaston Lallier quickly became a favorite with 
the queen and with her ladies, though one may 
be sure there was much jealousy among the 
duller-witted little sprigs of nobility with whom 
the child of the people was placed. 

One day Anne sent for him. When he entered 
she said : 

“ My little Breton, do not let the French 
feather-heads annoy thee. I will punish them if 
they taunt thee with thine origin. In my eyes, 
to be a Breton is a patent of nobility, and the 
good God has given thee a face for fortune.” 

Then turning to her ' ladies, she continued : 

The little brats have been calling him cobbler, 
and they say that he weareth lumps on his shoes 
for penance. Let me see thy feet, boy.” 

Gaston hesitated, and looked from the queen 
to the ladies. Every face, though curious, was 
kind. The gentleness and truth of the shoe- 
maker’s son had completely won their hearts, 
already touched by his rare beauty. 


THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


45 

He held up his head manfully, although a 
warmer blush suffused his cheeks. 

'' Do not misjudge me, fair queen,” he said. 

I do wear the lumps upon my shoes, and I wear 
them to make myself appear taller.” 

The queen’s eyes flashed. 

“ Let me see them,” she demanded. 

Gaston pulled off his shoe, and Anne turned it 
over with peculiar interest. The “ lump ” was a 
heel of wood fastened in a crude manner. 

“ Who made it ? ” she asked, sharply. 

Gaston bowed humbly. 

I am a shoemaker’s son ; I make all my own 
shoes,” he said. “ That is why the other pages 
mock me.” 

‘‘ It seems vanity to wish to appear tall,” said 
the little queen, striving to speak sternly. “ Hast 
no other reason for wearing the lump ? ” 

There are many good reasons,” replied 
Gaston, eagerly. “ It is more comfortable when 
one is used to it, and it lifts the shoe from contact 
with the soil.” 

One of the ladies in waiting, who was just a 
little shrewder than the others, had been watching 
the queen’s face. At this juncture she spoke : 

‘‘ Gaston,” she said, “ I would thou couldst 
make me a pair of shoes with lumps. I bethink 
me it is a good device.” 

‘'Gladly will I, fair dame,” said the boy; 


46 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ yet my first service I owe to my royal mistress. 
If she will accept a pair from my hands, then 
will I serve thee next.” 

‘‘ I will try thy folly, since Dame Margaret 
doth call it a good device,” responded the queen. 
“ Wilt take my foot measure, my little cordon- 
nier ? ” 

“ Nay,” answered Gaston. ‘‘ I have no need of 
that. For nearly a year have I been fashioning 
shoes worthy for your Majesty to wear. With 
your permission I shall bring them hither.” 

He left the apartment and returned in a few 
minutes with a silken casket, which he presented 
on bended knee to his beloved queen. 

Long have I sighed for this moment, when 
I could truly serve thee ! ” he murmured. 

Anne of Brittany uttered an exclamation of 
delight as she took the dainty bottines. They 
were of white Alexandrine velvet embroidered 
with gold fleur-de-lis. The “ lumps ” were care- 
fully shaped and covered with satin. A close 
observer might have seen that the left one was 
half an inch higher than the right. The lame 
queen perceived the difference at once. She bent 
her searching eyes upon her young compatriot. 
He trembled and burst into tears. 

“I have been presumptuous!” he exclaimed. 
“ But oh ! my queen, I would serve thee, I would 
fain serve thee as best I could ! ” 



“ HE RETURNED IN A FEW MINUTES WITH A SILKEN 
CASKET, WHICH HE PRESENTED ON BENDED KNEE.” 



THE COBBLER’S HEELS 


47 


Anne’s voice was husky with emotion. 
“ Gaston,” she said, “ thou hast served me right 
royally, and I shall remember it as becomes the 
Queen of France and of Brittany. Nay,” she 
continued, in response to the bewildered looks of 
her attendants, who knew not what to make of 
her reclaiming the queenship of France, ‘‘ do not 
misunderstand me. I shall wear the beautiful 
shoes when I wed with King Louis. Did not 
my little Breton put the French fleur-de-lis upon 
them?” 

Thus, half-sobbing, did the widow of “ the 
Ugly King ” announce her marriage with Louis 
d’ Orleans, who had become King Louis XII. 
of France. 

It gave the king and the people much pleasure 
when they saw the lovely queen on her wedding- 
day walking without a limp. 

‘‘ Queen Anne has been cured ! ” cried every 
one, but every one did not know that the hand- 
some little page had played doctor. 

Gaston’s rise was rapid, and it was a pity that 
old Pierre did not live to see him knighted. 
Malicious persons said that the white hand of 
Sieur Gaston de Lallier’s coat of arms should in 
reality have been a foot, since he rose to fortune 
on a heel. 

That he knew how to make a shoe was cer- 
tainly of great benefit to him in those early days. 


48 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


but the little cobbler-page developed into a brave 
and true knight for all that, and he fought like a 
lion under the victorious fleur-de-lis of Louis 
and Anne. 

Sieur Gaston de Lallier and his noble descend- 
ants were famed for courtliness and for courage. 
Yet no polished speech, no chivalrous deed, no 
wondrous feat at arms reechoes their renown 
across the centuries. The after-glory has van- 
ished, but “ the cobbler’s heels ” are still with us. 

Young Gaston’s industrious ingenuity, which 
ennobled a peasant, elevated mankind, so to 
speak. For might we not still be walking flat- 
footed if the cobbler-page had not invented heeled 
shoes for his lame little queen? 


CHAPTER III. 


POOR NOLLY 

We had been playing tennis on the lawn, and 
we* were very warm and very tired. We sought 
the shady seclusion of the apple orchard, and 
found Nana there with her sewing, and the 
Student buried in one of his Oriental books, 
while Brose and Nellie played hide-and-seek 
among the trees. Grandpapa was not to be seen. 
We all knew that he was taking his regular after- 
noon nap, but no one dared to speak of that. The 
old gentleman couldn’t stand the suspicion that 
he was obliged to indulge in a senile siesta. To 
the end of his days he fancied that his daily 
slumber was a perfectly secret institution. 

Nana was having what she would have called 
“ a silent chat ” with her beloved Student. Every 
once in awhile she would look up from her work, 
and, tracing certain family resemblances in the 
poise of her nephew’s ruddy head, the shape of 
his nose, the tilt of his chin, the very bend in his 
shoulders, her lips would move in satisfied, inaudi- 
49 


50 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


ble comment. Rudely we interrupted her delight- 
ful meditations. 

“ Oh, dear, Fm tired enough to collapse ! I 
grumbled, as I flung myself on the ground be- 
neath the shade of the splendid old Ben Davis. 

I had lost — lost persistently, tantalizingly. 
Frank, as tired as I, was more buoyant. He had 
won every game. Now Frank in triumph was a 
far more disagreeable being than Frank in defeat. 
A little humility was — and is — very becoming 
to my tall brother. How he boasted that warm 
afternoon when we were all only too willing to 
be a little cross ! I was openly surly ; Nana began 
to pucker her brows ; and, by and by, the Student 
closed his book, and fixed his eyes on Frank 
with a whimsical air of melancholy resignation. 
The boaster exhausted the details of our little 
contest, and then he ran back to Commencement 
Day to tell of his victories over the other boys 
in his class. He was especially severe on the class 
dunce, by way of comparison. 

“ And, think of it. Professor Hallowell said 
that I might yet be outclassed by that ninny ; — 
told the poor goose that tarradiddle to his very 
face! I know it was all for my benefit; some 
teachers have a spite against their star pupils* 
anyway. As if it were possible for that slow- 
coach to get ahead of me!” 

“ Maybe the Professor thought that encourage- 


POOR NOLLY 


51 


ment was better for the ninny than for the — 
the star ? ” suggested the Student, unsmilingly. 
‘‘ Then, you know, slow-coaches are sometimes 
transformed into -speed-makers, automobiles, 
lightning expresses, afternoon ‘ fliers,’ and all 
that sort of thing. It’s — almost — too — warm 
— to tell a story — ” 

But you’ll tell one? Oh, you are a dear!” 
No sooner had I uttered these words than I 
reddened with vexation. There was no sign of 
a smile in those grave, bright eyes, and yet I knew 
that our Student was laughing at my girlish out- 
burst. Well, he was a dear — though I never 
said so again. 

Go in and tell Aunt Dooney to make some 
lemonade, there’s a good boy. And she’ll give 
you some caraway cookies if you’ll talk sweet to 
her.” 

Order for me? ” asked the Student, unmoved 
and unmoving. 

No; Frank, I mean. Do go, Frank; it will 
put us all in a good humor for the story. The 
Student won’t tell a word until you return.” 

‘‘ Now, that’s orders,” commented the Student. 
‘‘ But, if I’m really a dear, it’s very odd that I 
can’t be trusted to talk sweet to the cook ! ” 
Nana laughed, — as if teasing were a joke! 

It takes genius to get on the right side of 
Aunt Dooney,” I retorted. 


52 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Presently the genius returned, laden with the 
reward of his efforts, and we forgave him his 
bragging while we drank old Aunt Dooney’s 
incomparable lemonade. I can see the group yet 
under the venerable apple-tree; the matronly 
nurse, the gaunt, deep-eyed Student, the high- 
spirited, handsome boy, the girl — myself — a 
pale little creature, top-heavy with too much 
hair. Yes, I seem to see that group — unseeable 
now on earth — and I fancy that I can hear the 
slow, rich, vibrant accents of the Student’s voice 
as he told us the story of Poor Nolly. 

NOLLY IN THE DAME SCHOOL 

Mistress Elizabeth Delap, schoolmistress for 
small boys in the little Irish village of Lissoy, 
shook her wigged head, as was her fashion when 
she had reason to be cross. She was like a pic- 
ture in her tucker of spotless white muslin and 
her cap of Limerick lace. Her wig was a very 
pretty one indeed for a village teacher of some 
two hundred years ago, when it wasn’t “ respect- 
able ” to wear one’s own hair. So far as years 
counted, Mistress Delap was young, but she was 
pedagogy personified, chalky of cheek, slaty of 
eye. Poor Nolly used to compare her nose to 
an inverted interrogation point, her lips to a 
brace, her thin fingers to the goose-quill pens, of 


POOR NOLLY 


S3 


which she kept a goodly stock upon her platform. 
A born school-teacher, she took a proper pride in 
her profession, although she knew nothing of 
our modern methods of moulding the minds of 
children as we would mould our own future if 
we could. 

Mistress Delap’s companion on this occasion 
was Schoolmaster Byrne, who taught boys aged 
from six to nine years. Mistress Delap received 
her pupils when they had reached the age of 
three, and there was no kindergarten business 
then, mind you ! When she turned them over to 
Master Byrne at the completion of their fifth 
year, they were supposed to be just as knowing as 
a boy of ten would be nowadays. They began 
their Latin grammar with Master Byrne, and by 
and by he introduced them to the mysteries of 
Euclid. Those good old times! Those poor 
old children! 

Before the two teachers stood a pair of very 
small boys. One of them had brought out the 
ever easily produced temper of Mistress Delap. 

Verily, he is naught but a wooden-head ! ” 
she cried. 

‘‘ And the other lad ? ” queried the master. 

'' He! Look at him, and mark the difference.” 

‘‘ The other lad ” was tall for his years, and 
his limbs had the supple grace of one to the man- 
ner born. His nobly formed head was crowned 


54 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


with an abundance of soft curls, his eyes were 
brightly inquisitive, and his skin had the rosy 
freshness characteristic of children of the green 
island. A marked contrast to his short, stocky, 
wooden-head ” companion, he of the tousled 
hair, the dull eyes, the face of leaden homeliness. 

“ Now, I mean to examine both of them, that 
you may judge between extremes,” said Mistress 
Delap. “ William, my lad, spell for Master 
Byrne. Eirst, ‘ enthusiasm.’ ” 

Promptly the handsome boy responded, “ E-n- 
t-h-u-s-i-a-s-m,” in old-time style, without any 
syllabic pronunciation pauses. 

“ Now, ‘ phthisis.’ ” 

The answer came instantly and correctly. Mis- 
tress Delap, overflowing with professional pride, 
again tested the orthography of her show pupil. 

Now, then, ‘ ecclesiastic,’ William.” 

Master William Shear slipped smoothly 
through the third trial-word. 

Bravo!” cried Master Byrne; ^'that’s rare 
spelling for a lad of five! You shall come into 
my class before the year’s end. Master Shear.” 

The schoolmistress flushed proudly, as if the 
remark of her superior officer had been a per- 
sonal compliment. 

He is a rare lad ! ” she cried, enthusiastically. 
“ Now, William, listen. If you bought twenty 
acres of land from me at the rate of a shilling an 


POOR NOLLY 


55 


acre, and sold it to Master Byrne for one and 
seven pence an acre, how much would you gain ? ” 
’Leven and eight pence,” replied the prodigy, 
with astounding rapidity. 

“ That will do, William ; you have answered 
very nicely,” said Mistress Delap. 

Wonderful, I call it,” commented the school- 
master. • 

“ Now for Stupidity. You shall see. Master 
Byrne, that I have my troubles for naught, some- 
times. Come hither, Nolly Folly (so the lads 
have named him). Fll ask him a few easy ques- 
tions. Now, Nolly, attention! Look straight at 
this gentleman, and answer me. If you bought 
one big apple for sixpence, and one little apple 
for threepence ha’penny, how much would you 
pay for the two? ” 

The ugly little boy had been surveying the 
fields through the opposite window, and his lack- 
lustre eyes displayed no interest in either outdoor 
prospect or indoor trial. He shifted awkwardly 
from one foot to the other, but showed no other 
sign of having heard the question addressed to 
him. 

“ Come,” continued the schoolmistress, sharply. 

At sixpence for one and threepence ha’penny 
for the other, how much for two apples? ” 

Too much,” said Nolly, doggedly. School- 
master Byrne laughed, but Mistress Delap slapped 


56 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


the hands of the stupid one. He glowered for 
a minute. 

“ You gived him whole lots of land for a sil- 
ling,” he lisped, “ and you gived me only two 
apples' I can buy apples for a ha’penny, so I 
can.” 

“ It isn’t apples — it is figures,” explained Mis- 
tress Delap, impatiently. 

“ Don’t yike fidders ! ” murmured the rebellious 
Nolly. 

“ I must try you again,” said his teacher, with 
an air of hopeless resignation. “ You heaird 
Master Shear spell a five-syllabled word. I’ll 
give you a word of but one syllable. Spell 
^ knife.’ ” 

Nolly looked terror-stricken. 

** N-i- ” he began, hesitatingly. 

A sharp ‘‘ No! ” stopped him short. Even the 
kindly faced schoolmaster was frowning, while 
the scowl of Mistress Delap was intensified. The 
stupid little rebel rebelled once more. 

- F-o-r-k,” he said. 

Master Byrne was obliged to smile again, but 
at the same time he shook his head. 

“ My boy, don’t you know what that spells ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied the culprit, calmly. “ But 
her never asks me spell ‘ fork.’ ” 

The schoolmistress nodded gravely to the 


POOR NOLLY 


57 

master as she said : “ You see : I tell you he 
hath a wooden head ! ” 

‘‘Will you permit me to ask them a few 
questions ? ” said the schoolmaster. 

“ I feel honored by your request, Master 
Byrne,” replied Mistress Delap, with the exag- 
gerated air of old-fashioned courtesy. 

Master Byrne bowed. 

“ Now, my clever fellow,” said he, addressing 
William Shear, “ answer me this : What is the 
moon ? ” 

The schoolmistress interfered hastily. 

“ He hath learned nothing of that ! ” she cried. 

“ I know,” said Master Byrne, tranquilly ; “ I 
know it is no part of his school studies ; I wish 
to discover his impressions on a subject of which 
he has been taught nothing.” 

“ He can have no ideas without knowledge : 
the mind is empty until it has been stored with 
facts,” argued the flustered dame. 

“ Education isn’t brains, my good Mistress 
Delap.” 

“ Education trains the brain to act properly, 
sir.” 

“ Just so ; but the brain should be educating 
itself all the while; natural intelligence precedes 
artificial instruction; the sky and the fields, the 
birds and the leaves, the stones and the waters, 
are mighty teachers to aid that tireless instructor 


58 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


— the wondering heart of a .little child. The 
best we can do is to help nature.” 

This was a little beyond the rules of eighteenth 
century pedagogy; Mistress Delap considered it 
gravely at first, and, not comprehending, con- 
demned. Her prim little face showed something 
very like contempt for the notions of the hitherto 
revered schoolmaster, as she ended the discussion 
with a curt, ‘‘ As you please to believe, sir ! ” 
Meantime Master Byrne went on : 

“ Tell me what you know about the moon. 
Master Shear.” 

That young gentleman looked bewildered; the 
examination was a little out of his line. 

Sir, I know naught about the moon,” he 
faltered. 

Well, what do you think about it? ” 

I think ’tis very bright.” 

^^Good. What else?” 

And it looks cold.” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ And a far long way off.” 

‘Wery good. Master Shear!” 

Mistress Delap cheered up again, and began 
to be interested when she saw that her star scholar 
had acquitted himself creditably. 

“ And you. Master Nolly, what do you think 
about the moon ? ” said Master Byrne, turning to 
the stupid little lisper. 


POOR NOLLY 


59 


The dull eyes brightened perceptibly. 

I fink a moon is nice,” he said, slowly. And 
then, with sudden volubility : “ Oh, ’tis a pretty, 
pretty moon, but it mates me try when I look at 
it, and see it looking at me. ’Way up there it 
sees all the big world and everybody in it, and 
it looks down and mates the world so pretty 
yike a silver world. And all the little clouds mate 
room for it in heaven, and all the stars point to 
it when I look up. It’s God’s big lamp, so it is, 
and He lights it up every night ’cept some nights 
it gets put out so we’ll be glad to see it again, 
and — ” 

‘‘Nonsense!” cried Mistress Delap. “Is he 
not a veritable blockhead. Master Byrne?” 

The little Irish schoolmaster smiled enigmat- 
ically. 

“We must find out what sort of timber is in 
this block,” he said, placing his hand gently on 
the unkempt head of poor Nolly. 


CHAPTER IV. 


NOLLY^S GIFT 

In course of time both boys passed out of the 
dame-school and into the “ village academy,” 
conducted by Master Byrne. As they grew to 
big-boyhood there was no change in their relative 
positions; William She'Ur was ever the star and 
poor Nolly the dunce of the school. And yet 
Master Byrne was kind, even friendly, to the 
wearer of the dunce-cap. Nolly’s homeward way 
ran by the schoolmaster’s house, and teacher and 
pupil frequently walked together. 

Undoubtedly there was some bond of sympathy 
between them. Master Byrne was very fond of 
poetry. The craze about Pope was then at white 
heat. That author had written his masterpieces, 
and he was still writing in the light of the fame 
which glorified his days, for, unlike many other 
poets, the bard of Twickenham was immortalized 
during his lifetime. The little schoolmaster was 
the proud and happy possessor of a ‘‘ Complete 
Pope.” Any one may have that pleasure nowa- 

6o 


NOLLY’S GIFT 


6i 


days for a very few pennies, but in 1736 Pope’s 
books were a matter of guineas. 

With a volume of his favorite author tucked 
under his arm, and anticipation beaming from his 
eyes. Master Byrne, accompanied by his slowest 
pupil, was wont to leave the school to seek the 
shade of a certain hedge-tree. There the little 
schoolmaster would read without fear of inter- 
ruption, and with the added enjoyment of having 
an appreciative listener. Nolly, crouched on the 
ground, drank in every syllable of the rhythmic 
measures. Sometimes the master read the 
“ Essay on Man,” sometimes the “ Pastorals,” 
but more often he declaimed the old, old story of 
Ilium in the polished verse of the great English 
metrician. 

It was suspected that Master Byrne had tried 
to make verses himself, but, truly, this could not 
be proven unless Nolly would tell, and a telltale 
he was not, although a dunce he might be. Poor 
Nolly! He was painfully alive to his own defi- 
ciencies. Once, when the daily reading was fin- 
ished, and master and pupil were trudging home, 
Nolly said : 

'' Is’t not strange that Master Pope should have 
written the ' Dunciad ’ in the very year this dunce 
was born ? ” 

Oh, but there’s no fear that you’ll stay a 
dunce, Nolly,” the warm-hearted little Irishman 


62 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


made haste to assure him. You are slow, yes 
— but you have feeling — and a dunce, a real 
dunce, lad, has no intellectual feeling.” 

Nolly was silent for awhile, but his ugly face 
was darkening with one of the basest of human 
resentments. Presently he spoke, and his voice 
was half-prisoned with rage, and grating through 
the bars of restraint : ‘‘ There is William Shear ; 
he has all good gifts, and I — I have none.” 

Master Byrne was shocked at this unexpected 
exhibition of envy. He was about to remon- 
strate, when the unhappy boy, giving way to the 
full force of his bitter temper, trembled with 
fury. 

“ He is rich ; I am poor. He is handsome ; I 
am hideous. He is gifted; I am a dunce. He is 
a mannerly, graceful young gentleman; I am an 
awkward fool. He has everything — more than 
everything ; I have nothing — less than nothing. 
'Twere better be dead ! ” 

The short, sharp sentences came like gasps. 
The transformed Nolly threw himself in the 
wayside grass, and burying his face, sobbed out 
his misery. Silently the schoolmaster sat down 
beside his pupil. Poor Nolly! Master Byrne 
had never once suspected this defect in his 
temper. A slow brain, a wayward heart — what 
a combination I And yet — 


NOLLY’S GIFT 


63 

Nolly rose tremblingly, his face ghastly. 
'' Wait, wait for me, master,” he stammered. 
And then, with a bound, he was over the hedge. 
The schoolmaster heard the splashing of water, 
and he knew that the boy was bathing his face 
ill the brook. Nolly’s scarred face was still pale 
when he rejoined his friend, but his temper was 
subdued, and he looked ashamed. “ Master, I 
am sorry — ” he began, and hesitated. 

“ Is’t often so with you, lad ? ” 

“ Ay, master, too often. It is worse since the 
smallpox seized me last Michaelmas and made 
my poor face more unsightly. Often and often I 
do lay awake at night, tortured with my thoughts, 
and wondering why it should be that life is so 
hard for me, and so easy for — for others. I 
am a clod of earth fit to be under a gentleman’s 
foot, I who would be — ” 

He was choking again, and Master Byrne, 
fearing another outburst, bade him sit down on 
a mossy bank. The schoolmaster, standing, re- 
moved his hat, “ Blessed be God for this beautiful 
world ! ” he said, with deep and joyous reverence. 
Nolly raised his burning eyes. It was a charm- 
ing spring day, and the hour was the golden 
crown of the late afternoon. Sky and field rev- 
elled in a feast of delicate coloring ; thousands of 
blossoms poured fragrance on the breeze; silvery 


64 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


bird-notes floated from the happy little nest- 
builders; bird and bee and butterfly flashed by 
and vanished in the fluttering leaves, — all was 
light and love and color and music and perfume 
and motion of joy irrepressible, inexpressible. 
The master watched the boy’s face. The too 
tender eyes filled with tears of very rapture, — 
one could almost see the envious discontent melt- 
ing away in the beauty-flooded soul. 

“ You are right, master, you are always right. 
Oh, yes, blessed be God ! ” So soft and low, who 
could have known that voice as the one of 
rancorous harshness, the only discord in the air 
so short a while ago? Now was the time for 
the wise friend’s little preachment. 

“ God knows what is best and does what is 
best. A clod of earth, say you ? The clod brings 
forth grass to feed the cattle, and flowers to feed 
the bees, and it contrives to add to the beauty of 
the world as well. If a blade of grass has its 
work to do in the universe, what is the work of a 
man created in the image and likeness of the 
Creator? He who gave to the meanest weed its 
mission did not make one of His noblest creatures 
in vain. . . . What does Master Pope say? Ay, 
truly, an honest man is the noblest work of God. 

“ ‘ Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. 
More rich, more wise; but who infers from hence 
That such are happier ? ’ 


NOLLY’S GIFT 


65 

“ Our gifts may be distributed unequally, but 
whoso says any gift is useless is ignorant of the 
ways of the great Giver. Look you, lad, a wren 
cannot bear a man upon his back, and the great 
elephant has not the skill to build the little nest 
of the wren. The master puts it better: see 
where he says, — 

“ ‘ Honor and shame from no condition rise, 

Act well your part: there all the honor lies.’ 

“ My poor Nolly, look without when all seems, 
dark within ; look, as Master Pope hath it, 
look through Nature up to Nature’s God!” 

A week later, William Shear set out early in 
the morning to walk to school, and the groom, 
grumbling at the sudden whim of his young 
master, led the boy’s pony back to the stable. It 
was a perfect May morning; the white hawthorn 
was in flower, and the air was like freshly distilled 
perfume. William, strolling leisurely along, 
sniffed the fragrance with keen enjoyment. He 
glanced to the right and the left, and saw the 
broad meadows, and the little cultivated holdings, 
and the wooded park reserve. All these wide 
acres were to be his, and his alone ; every cottage 
within view held a tenant of his father’s estate; 
the very schoolhouse belonged to his fair de- 
mesnes. His enjoyment of the May morn was 
not unmixed with a gratifying sense of pro- 


66 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


prietorship. He halted at the hawthorn-bush. 
There sat Nolly, his rough head and awkward 
shoulders bent over a piece of slate upon which 
he was scribbling. 

'' Doing your sums ? ” asked William the 
Great, quite affably. 

“No,” said Nolly. “I hate figures; I can 
make no hand of them.” Then, gravely: 

“ I’m writing poetry.” 

“ Oh ! ” gasped the star scholar, doubtful 
whether to laugh or to scold. But he took the 
proffered slate and read: 

“MY WORLD. 

“ The Hawthorne blossomes in the month of May ; 

The fieldes are greene ; the sky is blue to-day ; 

And I am ritch. I share this beauteous view, 

’Tis seen from cassell and from cotage, too. 

I am the heir of Time. The world’s best dress 

Is don’d to pleze me. I am plezed. I press 

My thankfull face upon the plezant earth. 

Nor witt, nor grace nor fortune give me worth, — 

And yet am I the lord of all I see, 

If none will share my heritage with me.” 

“ I VOW,” declared William, “ this is vile spell- 
ing for a great boy of nine ! ” 

“ My mother says that nine is but young in 
years,” said poor Nolly. “ She will have it that 
great learning cannot be swallowed by little 
children.” 

“ Your mother is a simple woman,” retorted 


NOLLY’S GIFT 


67 


Master William. “ My father told me but yester- 
e’en, that he knew his Virgil and Caesar as well 
at nine years as he knows them to-day.” 

Which probably was true. 

Hey, lads ! ” broke in the cheery voice of the 
schoolmaster. “ Not so much time for loitering 
this morning ! ” As he spoke he joined them. 
William handed him the piece of slate, smiling 
as he did so. 

Master Byrne read the lines slowly; then he 
fixed his eyes on Nolly’s blushing homeliness. 

‘‘ Lad,” he said, ’ solemnly, “ truly, truly you 
have a gift of numbers. The verse is written in 
Mr. Pope’s favorite measure.” 

William Shear stared at the little schoolmaster 
as if he thought him suddenly crazed. 

But the spelling ! ” he cried. 

Ay, the spelling,” glancing over the slate 
once more. “ He improves in the spelling.” 

“ Is there a word properly spelled ? ” 

Ay, and many. He will learn, William. 
Now here’s ‘ view ’ correctly written, and ‘ heri- 
tage ’ — hard words, both of them.” 

“ I can spell any word.” 

So you can, William, so you can, and a 
fine scholar you are — truly a credit to the 
school. And yet, my boy, were you to try from 
now to doomsday you could not write these lines 
of Noll’s. Learning is acquired, gifts are inborn, 


68 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


And, in verity, I think that our poor Nolly hath 
discovered the possession of, a gift at last.” 

Again he read the verse. 

“ The rhythm is smooth,” he said, “ and the 
sentiment is good, very good.” 

Nolly Folly bowed in his best manner, which 
was a very clumsy manner, indeed. 

Sir, for the rhythm I must thank Master 
Pope, whose gracious lines you have so often read 
to me. I could not help counting his numbers even 
as I wrote. And, oh, sir! am I not indebted to 
you for the sentiment ? How could I forget your 
kind and beautiful words? ” 

This was a long speech for Nolly, but he 
jerked it out somehow, and the little Irish school- 
master laid his hand on the tousled head almost 
as if he loved the boy. 

William Shear looked on approvingly. Nolly 
spoke the bare truth when he said that the young 
heir had all good gifts. He was as bright of 
heart as of mind; to him jealousy was as foreign 
as stupidity. He liked Nolly in a way that was 
half-pitying, half-contemptuous, as it became the 
only son of an estated gentleman to regard a boy 
who divided an inheritance of poverty with a 
small army of brothers and sisters; a boy, too, 
who lacked attractive qualities, who was slow- 
witted, graceless, destructively careless, and ugly 


NOLLY’S GIFT 


69 


to the point of repulsion. The feeling which the 
schoolmaster had discerned saved the hapless 
Nolly from compelling the dislike of his school- 
mates. They all liked him, even while they won- 
dered why they did so. 


CHAPTER V. 


NOLLY IN SOCIETY 

After the little scene under the hawthorn- 
bush, Master William lost his contempt for the 
hero of the dunce-stool, and went even so far 
as to invite him to his birthday party. This 
was a great event, and the wealthy parents spared 
no expense to make it a memorable occasion. 
Dancing was to be one of the features of the 
evening’s entertainment, and Schoolmaster Byrne, 
a man of various accomplishments, taught Nolly 
a few steps after school hours. The boy’s clothes 
were shabby to the verge of raggedness; despite 
his mother’s neat mending, his only coat was 
visibly a thing of shreds and patches. At the 
last moment he decided to wear the coat of his 
elder brother. It was a whole garment, and the 
fact that it was much too large for him did not 
trouble Nolty Folly until after his arrival at the 
great house, where the festivities had already 
begun. 

It was a period of boundless extravagance in 
70 


NOLLY INl SOCIETY 


71 


dress, and the little gentlemen present were shin- 
ing examples of the prevailing fashion. The 
handsome young host looked princely indeed in 
silver-broidered white satin. His lace was the 
most filmy Point Bruxelles, and the diamond 
buckles on his high-heeled slippers were a little 
fortune in themselves. The other guests were 
attired with corresponding splendor. Lustrous 
satins of every conceivable hue blent with the 
glinting of gold and silver lace upon the aristo- 
cratic little dancers. Beautiful little girls moved 
hither and thither as lightly as fairies, miniature 
grand dames with powdered tresses, and jewelled 
chains, and French fans expressively swayed. 
Nolly felt dismally out of place; he wished for 
the power to fly that he might escape through one 
of the high windows. 

The Honorable Mrs. Shear stared at the 
uncouth figure across the room. My son,” she 
said, sharply, “ who is yonder fellow ? Can you 
conceive how he managed to get admitted ? ” 

William Shear bit his lip as he took in the 
details of poor Nolly’s mongrel costume. The 
old-time bottle-green, long-tailed coat dangled 
loosely over the homespun blue breeches and 
madder-dyed red flannel waistcoat. The hob- 
nailed hide shoes were soiled with the mud of 
the road, the coarse gray knit stockings were the 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


72, 

only home-made hosiery in that silk-legged, car- 
riage-conveyed assembly. 

“ Why didn’t he dress ? ” thought William, 
irritably. And then, aloud : “ He’s a schoolmate 
of mine, mother — ” 

** I have always set my face against your going 
to the village school. This is the sort of society 
you have, is it? But why have you brought the 
peasant here? ” The honorable madam was thor- 
oughly angry. 

‘‘ Oh, he’s no peasant, madam. He is poor, 
yes, but his father is the queer curate, you know. 
They give all their little means away to the 
beggars, and they have a large family to provide 
for. Nolly is very odd, too, but the master says 
he is cut out for a poet.” 

‘‘ Ah, I see,” commented the woman of the 
world. “ What do you think of that odd child 
over there, my dear? ” addressing a languid little 
lady near by, the daughter of an Irish peer. 

“ A’m sure Ah can’t say,” drawled Lady 
Una. 

‘‘ Yes, you are right, my love; it is hard to say 
what one thinks of a figure like that. Fancy, he 
is the clergyman’s son; fine old family they are 
— connected with the Contarines and the Cecils 
and all manner of good people. Tlie uncle is 
the bosom friend of Bishop Berkeley ; they might 
be what they choose, and they choose to bury 


NOLLY IN SOCIETY 


73 


themselves in poverty in our village. William 
tells me that they give their means away to the 
beggars — think of that ! ” 

Little Lady Una looked interested, for a 
wonder. 

‘‘ The boy is like a beggar-boy himself, madam. 
Why, he looks as if he were clad from a rag- 
bag.’’ 

“ Oh, dear, that’s a clever idea of his : he 
came in a character costume.” The insincere fine 
lady looked around to make sure that her son 
had gone out of hearing before she made this 
equivocal statement. The boy is a second Pope, 
my dear — Pope the poet, you know, not Pope 
the Pope.” 

Lady Una smiled. ‘‘ He does not look Papal, 
madam. How deliciously ugly he is! There’s 
William greeting him now — what a contrast 1 ” 

William did not permit himself to show the 
slightest chagrin at the unseemly appearance of 
his guest, although he must have wished to say 
with Tranio, — 

“ Go to my chamber ; put on clothes of mine ! ” 

He greeted Nolly affectionately, and led him 
to an old lady, who gave him cake and tea. By 
and by a cousin of William’s, a lad of twelve, 
began to play the violin. It was not yet the 


74 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


fashion to have orchestral music at private enter- 
tainments. The first dance was a hornpipe — the 
very step poor Noll had learned. The near- 
sighted old lady spoke to him. 

Don’t you dance? ” she said. 

“ Y-yes, ma’am,” faltered Nolly. 

Then get up and dance. It’s a hornpipe ; 
you need wait for no partner. Dance, child, and 
enjoy yourself. That’s what you’re here for.” 

Nolly obeyed reluctantly. The dance was 
lively and the music spirited. Quite forgetting 
the singularity of his dress, the boy was absorbed 
in the practice of his newly learned accomplish- 
ment, when suddenly he noticed that most of the 
other dancers had stopped to watch him. Master 
Byrne had instructed him not to pause until the 
music stopped, and Nolly resolutely persevered. 

So the gawky figure became the central attrac- 
tion. Noll did not dance out of step, but he was 
naturally clumsy, and his ridiculous attire and 
marked ugliness turned him into the clown of the 
occasion. Truth to say, William’s party, thanks 
to his mother’s management, was so formally 
fashionable that the young people were glad to 
welcome a diversion. 

The young violinist helped the fun. He played 
away with right good-will, interspersing his notes 
with affected compliments which convulsed the 
polite company. There were no ha-ha-has, but 


NOLLY IN SOCIETY 


75 


smiles were not concealed. Finding that the 
dancer was the only one who paid no attention 
to his wit, the young musician went a bit farther. 

“ Very graceful dancing, ve-ry graceful, my 
little JEsop ! ” he cried. 

This cruel allusion to his personal appearance 
stopped the awkward dancer. He recollected 
having read somewhere of ^Esop as having been 
a very monster of deformed ugliness. Nolly’s 
eyes blazed ; he forgot everything but the insult, 
and its sharpness spurred his slow wit. Pointing 
at the would-be humorist, he exclaimed: 

“ Our herald hath proclaimed this saying, 

See .Esop dancing and his monkey playing ! ” 

The next moment Nolly’s rough hand was 
clasped by little velvet-soft fingers, and he was 
dimly aware that a beautiful vision was speaking 
to him, as William Shear, indignant, flushed, but 
resolutely self-possessed, presented him to Lady 
Una. 

I am glad to know you, vastly glad,” said 
the little lady. You are a wit, I perceive, as 
well as a poet.” She had darted across the 
room, flinging a lightning glance of anger upon 
the luckless violinist as she passed. The Honor- 
able Mrs. Shear followed with the slowness befit- 
ting dignity. She was quite gracious. 

“ We hope to hear great things of you in 


76 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


time,” she said, nodding affably, her absurd 
crown of feathers quivering with every movement 
of her head. I have told Lady Una that you 
are to be the Pope of Ireland. It’s in your blood, 
you know — to be somebody, I mean.” 

During the fine lady’s vague speech her son 
had withdrawn from the group to seek the in- 
sulter of poor Nolly. The young gentleman was 
enjoying a little triumph of his own, still making 
merry at the expense of “ the Pope of Ireland,” 
and rewarded by the polite tittering of a few 
favored friends, when William interrupted him. 

‘‘ This may not pass. Cousin Arthur,” he said, 
firmly. ‘‘ You must apologize to my guest — my 
friend.” 

“To that — ” 

“ To that young gentleman, yes.” William 
turned his eyes to the others. “ There are two 
things a gentleman may do in a case like this,” 
he went on. “ He may speak handsomely to the 
offended one, or he may — ” 

“ Fight ! ” cried the boys in unison. Only — 
only they did not say it as boys do. These were 
premature little men, pocket edition beaux of 
the period. People talk of the precocity of chil- 
dren to-day; rest assured it is mere babyishness 
in comparison with the ideas and manners of 
those who were young when George the Second 
was king. 


NOLLY IN SOCIETY 


77 


One drew his little sword; another snapped 
his fingers, which meant that, having no sword, 
he was for pistols, while a third pulled out a 
silver snuff-box, and put a pinch of the brown 
powder to his little nose, the while he looked 
very knowing. 

Gentlemen do not fight for trifles,” declared 
this twelve-year old arbiter. “If it is a question 
of a lady’s honor or a man’s courage, a duel’s 
the thing. But we must not draw for nothing, 
like rowdies in a tavern ! ”, 

“ Molyneux is right,” said Arthur. Molyneux 
was always right ; how could a viscount 
be in the wrong? The little nobleman took an- 
other tiny pinch of snuff as the offender marched 
off to laugh away his “ joke ” to the offended. 
Poor Nolly was bewildered with attentions; he 
begged the gay apologist to play again, and while 
the dancers were ranging themselves for a 
minuet, he bade a blundering farewell to his 
hostess and slipped away through the great hall 
door and between the rows of carriages and 
sedan-chairs on the driveway, a target for the 
second-hand witticisms of the waiting flunkies. 

He attended no more parties. Very soon after- 
ward he left Lissoy to live with his uncle in the 
adjoining county. Under the care of this rela- 
tive, the scholarly Contarine, he pursued his 
studies with little more success than had crowned 


78 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


his efforts in the village school. He missed 
Schoolmaster Byrne sorely, and the little master, 
for his part, would gladly have exchanged the 
aptest of his pupils for poor Nolly, the loving 
and lovable dunce. It was not to be. Nolly 
and his old master had parted for ever. 


CHAPTER VI. 


NOLLY IN THE WORLD 

With every succeeding year Master William 
Shear grew wiser and more comely. When his 
parents died of smallpox he escaped contagion, 
although in those days, before the preventive 
virtues of vaccination had been discovered, whole 
families were wiped out by the dread disease. 
His father and mother were buried together on 
the day of their death. After the double funeral, 
his English grandfather sent for the orphaned 
boy. Sir Roger Vivian, the father of the Honor- 
able Mrs. Shear, was very proud of the appear- 
ance and talents of his Irish grandson, who was 
the envy of the English heirs. In good time, 
William passed from Eton to Oxford, where he 
distinguished himself and his college. 

When Sir Roger died and young Roger suc- 
ceeded to the title and estate, William Shear 
returned to Ireland in time for the wedding of 
Lady Una and Lord Molyneux. At this festivity 
he lost his heart to Lady Ethne, the bride’s 


79 


8o 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


younger sister, and, in course of time, this fair 
young girl became the Lady Ethne Shear. 

William settled down in his Lissoy estate, and 

— almost — got into Parliament. His oppo- 
nent, an Irishman with a quick wit and a silvery 
tongue, managed to secure a small majority of 
the votes, and the defeated candidate cheerfully 
returned to his books. To the end of his days 
William Shear was known as a man of deep and 
varied erudition. A work on “ Comparative 
Philology,” bearing his name on its title-page, 
is evidence that he wrote a book — the first edi- 
tion of which has never been exhausted. To his 
heirs he left much money and wide lands, and, 
among other valued personal possessions, a scrap 
of paper covered with the irregular writing of 

— Nolly Folly! 

A very stately and beautiful grand dame was 
Una, Lady Molyneux, poor Nolly’s aristocratic 
little champion of long ago. When the viscount 
succeeded to the earldom of Sefton, the young 
countess, then at the full flower of her bloom, 
was said to be the most beautiful woman in the 
“ three kingdoms.” At the close of her first 
season in London society, the king himself 
deigned to express an opinion of her charms. 

Der Eirish gountess iss too britty und too — 
berfect,” declared royal George. Following the 
lead of his Hanoverian Britannic Majesty, the 


NOLLY IN THE WORLD 


8i 


gentlemen of the court hastened to say that the 
cold manners of the countess were enough to 
mar her superb beauty. The many ladies who 
were neither too britty nor too berfect were as 
one in pronouncing the Countess of Sefton un- 
interesting, languid, and vastly insipid. When 
these remarks were repeated to Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, he laughed. Indeed, the Reynolds por- 
trait of her ladyship shows a peerless beauty with 
the expression of an angel. 

Perhaps I flattered the Irish countess a bit,” 
said the great painter one day, simply to “ draw 
out ” Nolly. 

There is neither color nor brush in this world 
to do her justice,” retorted poor Nolly. She 
flatters all art when she consents to be portrayed 
by you ! ” 

So he must have seen her, though she never 
once saw him, try as she might. Once, indeed, 
he was a beggar in the street when he watched 
her carriage go by; once, but that was later, he 
saw her in the theatre when his play had failed 
— poor Nolly ! — and she and her lord applauded 
with his iriends, in vain endeavor to stem the 
tide of hissing. Oh, she knew of him through 
his work! and that was enough for him; he 
would never intrude his ugly face into her 
charmed circle. 

After that first season the countess was seldom 


82 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


in London; she had what his Majesty called the 
“ gweer taste ” to prefer her Irish castle to a 
house in the metropolis with all the advantages 
of a very corrupt society. She was a queen to 
her children and a mother to her tenants. And 
by and by, when that marvellous beauty of hers 
had become a withered rose of yesterday,” a 
mere memory of the past, and her grandchildren 
clustered around her, she had many stories to 
tell them of her own childhood. One tale ended 
in this wise : 

Here is the hand that clasped his hand. I 
am so glad to think of it. But it was very 
amusing, children, when Madam Shear — that 
was your great-grandaunt — followed me, and 
saw me shaking hands with poor Nolly. After- 
ward, she told me that she was horrified. ‘ You 
should have waited until he came up to be pre- 
sented to you, and then you should have curtsied 
very distantly,, instead of shaking hands like a 
— like a — like an American emigrant ! ’ Ah, 
we were very formal in those days, my dears ! ” 
If I had time, it would give me pleasure to 
tell you the whole life-story of Schoolmaster 
Byrne. If you have not guessed that he was a 
most unusual kind of pedagogue, I have told you 
nothing. He had fought under the great Marl- 
borough, and had travelled much, though to 
small purpose, before he began to teach the little 


NOLLY IN THE WORLD 


83 


school in his native county. An obscure little old 
school; a queer little old teacher! Yet both are 
immortalized in the “ Deserted Village,” — 

“ There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 

The village master taught his little school.” 

Mistress Elizabeth Delap, the dame of the 
dame-school, lived to be ninety. In her later 
years she became something of a celebrated char- 
acter, since men travelled long distances to see 
her that she might show them Nolly’s horn- 
book and primer, which she seemed to have pre- 
served as mementos of her most stupid scholar. 
She found it hard to credit her little dunce’s fame. 

Nolly Folly always was, and always must have 
been, a very wooden-head ! ” she maintained, 
stubbornly. 

Poor Nolly! Yes, he grew up, uglier and 
more careless as the years went by. He gained 
a little money, and lost a great deal. He blun- 
dered through his short life in an unhappy 
manner, a poor student, an indifferent doctor, 
a vagrant tutor, a desultory writer, — sometimes 
playing philosopher, oftener playing fool. He 
was a financial failure. He died in great poverty, 
but he was mourned by many friends, and pro- 
found thinkers placed his name above that of 
Pope, his great master of numbers. King George 
the Third made him a professor of the Royal 


84 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Academy, — a position too “ honorable ” to carry 
any salary with it, — and Nolly remarked to 
Garrick that the distinction conferred on him 
was like presenting bosom-ruffles to a man who 
lacked a shirt. 

A very good friend of his was ‘‘ the great 
Cham ” of English literature. Dr. Samuel John- 
son. Edmund Burke, David Garrick, and Sir 
Joshua Reynolds fondly loved poor Nolly. It 
was of him that Garrick said, “ He wrote like 
an angel, and talked like — poor Poll.” 

Let not his frailties be remembered,” said 
Johnson ; '' he was a very great man 1 ” 

Poor Nolly was Oliver Goldsmith. 

The Student smiled at me, for when I said 
“ 0-oh! ” my eyes were o’s, as Nana might have 
said. But Frank was scornful. “ Poor Nolly, 
indeed ! That fellow was a regular chump ! ” 

** Oh, yes, you’d rather have been William 
Shear, I suppose! Well, I wouldn’t; — I’d 
rather be the author of the ^ Vicar of Wakefield ’ 
and the ‘ Deserted Village ’ than be King of 
England ! ” 

** But he was a — what does Frank call him? 
— a ‘ chump,’ in some things, you know. It isn’t 
safe to judge by externals, however. Why 
don’t you get Nana to tell you about Tad the 
Fool?” 


NOLLY IN THE WORLD 85 

“ Sure you can tell that tale yourself, and tell 
it better than any one else,” said Nana. 

“ Do, please! ” pleaded Frank, ever hungry for 
a new story. 

“ But it’s about some one else no more promis- 
ing than the class dunce,” said the Student, slyly. 

Well, there may be something even in him, 
after all,” admitted Master Frank. “ Pshaw I 
there’s Grandpapa on the verandah looking for 
you. When will you tell us the story of Tad 
the Fool?” 

“ Perhaps to-morrow,” promised the Student, 
taking his Arabic book, and rising to join Grand- 
papa. 

But Grandpapa took him to Washington the 
next day, and it was a whole week before we 
heard the story told in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER VII. 


TAD^ THE FOOL 

In Irish, Scandinavian, and Russian folk-lore, 
many stories centre upon the funny exploits of 
fool heroes. Simple Simon is not always a 
laughing-stock, however ; although he creates 
merriment enough, frequently he comes out 
ahead of the pieman. 

Within the shadow of the Galtee Mountains of 
Ireland, between Cahir and Tipperary town, 
dwelt one of the unsophisticated tribe, who was 
known in the little village as “ Tad, the Fool.” 
Thaddeus was the last of thirteen children, and 
his mother was a widow. A tradition handed 
down in Ballyvalley has it that Tad “ slept in 
the ashes for seven long years ” and then, waking 
up hungry, called for a bowl of porridge, to the 
astonishment of his old mother, who had never 
hoped to be able to arouse him. 

It is quite certain that he kept almost absolute 
silence for a long period, and if, in popular 
esteem, silence isn’t the mark of a fool or a 
86 


TAD, THE FOOL 


87 


genius, Vd like to know what is ! One day, how- 
ever, he left O'ff his mantle of taciturnity, and 
began to ask questions enough to bewilder a 
philosopher, let alone a poor Irish widow. After 
the first query his mother stared at him. 

I thought it was half-dumb you were,” she 
said. What are you after asking me, Tad, 
alanna ? ” 

“ Tadalanna,” repeated the boy, musingly; 

it’s a fine long name I have, anyhow. Well, 
I’m after asking you if 1 haven’t any brothers 
and sisters at all ? ” 

“ You have, alanna, and twelve of them. 
There’s Patrick and Mary Ann, and Michael and 
Bridget, and Brian and Katie, and Larry and 
Liza, and John and Norry, and Martin and 
Peggy.” 

She stopped, quite out of breath. 

And there’s me,” said Tad. 

Yes, there’s you,” agreed his mother, dole- 
fully ; you were the thirteenth, the odd one 
entirely, and your father to die and me to be 
left a poor widow woman, and all my children to 
leave me but the foolish one! ” 

Who’s the foolish one? ” asked Tad. 

Who but you ? ” retorted the widow ; “ who 
but a natural fool would be as dumb as a tomb- 
stone for a long stretch, and then begin to ask 
a whole catechism of questions at once ? ” 


88 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“I’m not done asking yet,” Tad warned her; 
“ I’d like to know if I haven’t any sister ? ” 

“ And after I telling you that there’s six — 
Bridget and Mary and Norry and Kate and Liza 
and Peggy ! ” 

“ Ah, but there’s six brothers for them. Every 
brother has a sister but me. I’m the odd one.” 

“ Troth, and you are that, not to know that 
every brother and every sister belongs to yourself. 
But if you want a sister there’s Liza, the only one 
of my children left in Ireland, save Larry in the 
churchyard beyond.” 

“ Is my brother Larry under the stones ? ” 

“ He is in heaven,” said Mrs. Mahon. “ He 
went in all his innocence, a little fair-haired 
gossoon of six. It’s twenty years since we laid 
him down,” the old woman went on, with a 
tremor in her voice, “ and I thought his father 
would die of grief; ’twas the only one we lost, 
and now the one stone is over father and son. 
Ah, Tad,” she concluded, wiping her eyes, “ if 
’twas God’s will, ’twould be better for you to be 
with them, my poor innocent.” 

Tad went outside the door and returned with 
a spade. 

“Good-by,” he said; “I’m going.” 

“ Going where, alanna ? ” 

“ I’ll dig up the ground and go to dada and 
Larry.” 


TAD, THE FOOL 


89 


Mrs. Mahon took the spade away from him. 

'' No,” she said, “ you must live till God calls 
you. If you only had a little more sense — sure 
there wasn’t one of my children but were full 
of cutting but you. I don’t know where you 
got your softness.” 

‘‘ I heard Nance Foley say that my grandfather 
was a bit daft.” 

“ Your grandfather, they said, was a miser 
and had a chest of gold. But sorra bit could 
they find when he died. So they said his head 
was queer. But people will talk while they have 
tongues. And it’s small wonder they talk of you. 
Tad. I heard the other day that some one killed 
one of Sir Charles’s hounds, and Nance herself 
told me she thought she saw you coming out 
of the wood.” 

I’m sorry I killed a dog,” said the boy. ‘‘ I 
saw the poor hare looking at me for help, and 
I threw a big stone at the hound. The hare got 
away and I was glad.” 

'' But you spoiled the sport of the gentlemen, 
and you killed a valuable dog that I’ll have to 
pay for now.” 

‘‘ If they call it sport to hunt down a poor 
little beast with dogs and horses, they’re more 
fools than I am.” 

''Tad,” said Mrs. Mahon, "you don’t see 


90 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


things right. I’ll send you to school to Mr. 
Boyle.” 

She was as good as her word, and the very 
next week found the boy with a number of lads 
in the village school, where “ Tad, the Fool,” 
speedily became the butt for all the petty shafts 
which the senders were pleased to call sallies of 
wit. Tad’s preternaturally grave manner and his 
absolute simplicity and directness were comical 
at times. A keen observer might have said that 
he had more “ cutting ” than his mother gave him 
credit for. But he was a queer object. His 
hair was long, and he wore the most nondescript 
garments imaginable. “ Clothes are only covers,” 
said Tad, the Fool; “and I’m covered, at any 
rate.” 

He made some progress in reading, writing, 
and catechism at Ballyvalley school; but Mr. 
Boyle said he had no head for figures. The pre- 
siding genius of the school was a wrinkled, little, 
old-fashioned Irishman, with a marvellous ca- 
pacity for “ figures,” and for nothing else. The 
instructive instinct he lacked altogether, and his 
manner of teaching was cumbersome and utterly 
uninteresting. 

When Tad had been at school for more than 
a year, Mrs. Mahon ventured to ask the man of 
knowledge how her son was getting on. 

Mr. Boyle shook his head impressively. 


TAD, THE FOOL 


91 


“ No perception, madam,” he said, firmly. “ I 
assure you that he doesn’t know the difference 
between a parallelopipedon and a parabola ! ” 

The widow was staggered with “ the ponder- 
osity of the verbosity.” 

“ They must be hard things,” she said ; 
“ maybe he’ll learn ? ” 

Maybe; ” repeated the pedant, doubtfully; 

geometrical propositions, necessarily axiomatic, 
are frequently attended with a degree of incom- 
prehensibility, almost, I might say, unintelligible 
to immature minds. But algebra, madam, alge- 
bra, is the most beautifully lucid of the great 
mathematical sciences. Your son, Mrs. Mahon,” 
he concluded, coming down from his verbal 
mountains, “ your son cannot be made to under- 
stand X and y.” 

“ Oh, then,” said Tad’s mother, “ if that’s the 
case, there’s no hope for him at all, at all,” and 
she departed in great sorrow. 

'‘Tad,” she , said to him, when she reached 
home, " you needn’t go to school any more, 
alanna. The master says you didn’t even learn 
X and y, and you fifteen months at school ! Ai^ 
my little Larry that was taken from me in his 
innocence could say his letters backward when 
he was five. And you’re fourteen. Tad.” 

" I am,” said Tad, " and I was out of my letters 


92 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


when I was at school a week. I’m in words of 
three syl-la-bles now,” he declared, slowly. 

** He said you didn’t know x and y.” 

He means,” explained the boy, patiently, 
that I don’t know all about al-geb-ra. But the 
other boys can’t make it out so easy, either.” 

‘‘ And he said you had no per-ception.” 

I can’t help that,” said Tad. Maybe you 
could buy some for me, mother?” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” hesitated Mrs. Mahon ; the 
reading-book and the copy-book didn’t cost a 
great deal, but this perception might be a dear 
thing.” 

''If you like, mother. I’ll not go any more. If 
being a scholar would make me like old Paddy 
Boyle, I’d rather stay an ig-nor-a-mus.” 

" Is that what you are ? ” asked the simple 
woman. " Well, alanna, do as you like. If you 
can’t take learning, it’s no fault of yours.” 

So Tad left school and began to roam about 
again. He knew every hill and valley in the 
vicinity of the village, and he was known as a 
" natural,” whose especial folly was an infinite 
degree of " softness.” He was tender to every 
living thing, and children and dumb animals 
loved him surpassingly well. 

" He would stare for hours at a few green 
leaves or blades of grass,” said one of his con- 
temporaries, " and though he would kill nothing 


TAD, THE FOOL 


93 


he’d gather up all the dead flies and moths. I 
don’t know what he did with them, but ’twas 
likely he thought they ought to be buried like 
Christians. He was such a fool ! ” 

One day a great doctor from Dublin came to 
the village. He had been sent for by Sir Charles 
Morley, the local magnate, whose estate lay just 
outside Ballyvalley. Lady Morley was ill with 
pneumonia, and the local physician was as eager 
as Sir Charles himself to have the advice of the 
Great Harkaway. Mrs. Mahon, who had been 
her Ladyship’s nurse thirty years before, hurried 
to the Hall like the faithful old soul that she 
was, when she heard that her former charge 
was in danger. Useless enough she was, too, 
but no one told her so, for with that spirit so 
seldom seen between classes in America, the mas- 
ter of Morley Hall understood and appreciated 
the old servant’s devotion. 

It was thus that Tad’s mother met the famous 
Doctor Harkaway, who was afterwards knighted 
for his services to the royal family. In the 
servants’ hall his powers were viewed through 
the telescope of mystery, and thereby greatly 
magnified. The laundress declared that a man 
who had had his brains blown out was fixed up 
properly by Doctor Harkaway. 

The very man is living to-day in County 
Cork,” she said, and his forehead bulges out 


94 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


where the doctor stuffed it with cotton rags 
before he sewed it up.” 

I don’t see how a man could live with rags 
for brains,” argued the scullery-maid. 

“ Ah, but you see this man is in the rag 
business ! ” concluded the laundress, convinc- 
ingly. 

Mrs. Mahon listened in amazement. Her 
thoughts worked rapidly. Poor Tad! What 
if the doctor could fix his head? Rags; she 
didn’t know about that ; the rag business wasn’t 
what a son of Terence Mahon should go into, 
— Terence, her dead husband, who had been a 
“ bit of a scholar,” and who, like his father be- 
fore him, had sailed the foreign seas. Her other 
children were prospering in England and Amer- 
ica, and they were all in a “ respectable way.” 
Rags wouldn’t do. Still, there might be some- 
thing else. Perception, now! That’s what old 
Boyle said the boy required. If Doctor Hark- 
away could stuff his head with this unknown 
material. Tad would understand “ all the para- 
bles of Boyle,” thought Mrs. Mahon. So she 
waylaid the great man coming down the grand 
stairway, and laid the case before him. 

“If you could get some per-ception for him, 
please, sir. I’d be willing to pay for as much as 
he’ll want,” she said, by way of conclusion. 


TAD, THE FOOL 


9S 

The Great Harkaway eyed her in quizzical 
patience. 

“Perception?” he repeated, interrogatively. 

“ Yes, your Honor. That’s what the school- 
master said he lacked. And I can pay you 
a guinea, for my sons in America are very good 
to me.” 

He smiled. “ Never mind your guinea,” he 
said. “ If the boy were here I might examine 
him. My time is precious, and I must drive 
over to Cahir to get the noon train. Is your 
son idiotic?” 

“ He was at school a year, your Honor, and 
the master said he couldn’t tell a from b.” 

In her excitement Mrs. .Mahon gave the 
wrong letters. 

The doctor looked grave. 

“ I fear we can do nothing with him,” he 
said. “ Where is he ? ” 

“ He’s down-stairs, please, sir.” She led the 
way to the kitchen, where Tad sat listening to the 
innocent gossip of the cook. 

“ Leave us alone, if you please,” said the 
doctor, and Mrs. Mahon and the kitchen officials 
left the room. 

The widow waited in some suspense for the 
verdict. In ten minutes Dr. Harkaway came out, 
drawing on his gloves and smiling broadly. 

“ Can you do anything for him ? ” asked the 


96 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


anxious mother. ‘‘ I could send him to Dublin, 
sir, where you could treat him at your office. 
His sister Liza lives in Dublin and he could stay 
with her.” 

“ Send him to Dublin, then, by all means,” said 
the doctor. “ I should say he needs change.” 

He was still smiling. 

“ And — and,” ventured Mrs. Mahon, timidly, 
“ do you think he’ll ever be like the rest of us ? ” 

‘‘ Well, no,” replied the physician, with sus- 
piciously sudden gravity. “ I don’t say he’ll ever 
be quite so wise as all that ! ” 

And then he laughed aloud. 

“ But send him — send him to town. Bally- 
valley doesn’t understand his case.” 

And he went off with the same odd smile. 

A pleasant-spoken old gentleman,” said Mrs. 
Mahon, approvingly, to the laundress ; “ smiling 
away as if I’d given him fifty pounds for his 
services.” 

Just then Tad came out. 

Is it going to sell me you are, mother? ” he 
asked, reproachfully. 

The question startled her. Sell you ! ” she 
repeated after him. ‘‘ What put such a whim 
into your poor head, alanna ? ” 

The man with the beard,'’ said Tad. ** He 
felt all over my head with his two big hands, 
and he brought me to the window and stared into 


TAD, THE FOOL 


97 

my eyes, and he pushed back my eyelids, and he 
asked my name and how old I was.” 

“And you told him civilly?” 

“ I did that, and then I asked his name and 
his age.” 

“ Oh, but that wasn’t civil at all, at all,” cried 
Mrs. Mahon. “ What concern of yours was it ? ” 

“ He didn’t say that,” said Tad, proudly. 
“ He told me his name was Harkaway, and that 
he was sixty-two, and says he, ‘ Would you like 
to live to that age?’ and I said yes, if living 
so old would make me as fine a man as him. And 
he laughed, and says he: ‘ Well, if you’re a fool, 
you’re an Irish fool ! ’ ” 

“ Oh, but he’s the civil old gentleman ! ” cried 
the old woman, delightedly, “ and wouldn’t you 
like to see him often. Tad, and to have him see 
you ? ” 

“ I don’t mind having him see me,” replied 
the boy, “ if he doesn’t feel me so much.” 

“ Ah, that’s only for the first time,” she said, 
soothingly; “it’s looking for a thin place, he 
was.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” put in the laundress, “ and 
when he finds the thin place you’ll feel him.” 

The widow gave a little scream. 

“ You don’t think he’d hurt him, Nance? ” she 
queried, anxiously. 


98 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


He’d have to hurt him to cure him,” said 
Nance Foley, oracularly. 

'' Is it a doctor he is? ” asked Tad the Fool, 
quickly. 

Yes, alanna, and Fm going to send you to 
Dublin to your sister Liza, where he can see 
you often and cure you. Fm only waiting for 
the next mail from America, for Fm expecting 
ten pounds from Patrick and Michael — God be 
good to them ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


TAD^S FORTUNE 

The next mail brought news of “ hard times ” 
in the new world, and barely half of the custom- 
ary remittance. The Widow Mahon was greatly 
distressed. 

IVe but only enough to live on now,” she 
said, ‘‘ let alone to send you away with. Tad. 
My poor afflicted boy, I was sure I’d have you 
cured ! ” 

“ Oh, maybe I’ll do as I am,” Tad responded, 
cheerfully. “ I’m too big a boy to be a drag 
on you, mother. I’ll have to seek my fortune, 
too.” 

His mother clasped her hands in pity. 

“ You’re not like your brothers, alanna,” she 
said ; “ sure, you have no cutting, and a fortune 
was never made by a natural.” 

Well, now, that’s how the lady said I’d rnake 
mine,” asserted Tad, stoutly. 

^‘How? What lady?” 

’Twas yesterday,” explained the fool, in the 
99 


lOO 


THE STORY-BOOK. HOUSE 


slow, deliberate way that his associates termed 
half-witted ; ” '‘I was coming down the big 
hill and I saw a car stopping at the foot. A lady 
and two gentlemen got out, and they went hunt- 
ing about for something in the hedge. When I 
came I asked them what they were seeking.” 

“ Ah, why did you speak till you were spoken 
to? But it’s no use talking, you’d speak to the 
queen herself.” 

“ I would, indeed ! Why not ? But the lady 
looked at me kindly, and one of the gentlemen 
laughed — at my clothes, I think — and he said : 
' Oh, Paddy will find it. Paddy, my boy, can you 
get us a few specimens of or-kee-day-ee ? ’ 

“ ‘ Say it again,’ says I, and then the lady and 
the other gentleman laughed at him, but he said 
it again, and I told him I didn’t know, and I 
was going away, when the lady said : ‘ It’s a 
kind of a plant,’ and then I asked her to tell me 
what it was like, and when she told me, I said 
the dusty roadside wasn’t the place to be looking 
for it, and I brought her down the valley where 
the bit of water is, and I got her a lot of the 
flowers she wanted. 

“ ' What do you call them hereabouts ? ’ she 
asked me, and I said I didn’t know ; that I only 
know them myself because I’m foolish and don’t 
go to school. I promised to bring her to the 
rocks some day where there’s a very queer kind 


TAD’S FORTUNE 


lOI 


growing. You know, mother, I hung one on a 
nail and it grew without earth.” 

That is only your nonsense,” said his mother. 
“ It kept fresh for awhile. The lady was laugh- 
ing at you, too, no more than the gentleman.” 

“ Maybe she was,” said Tad, dejectedly. 
“ She told me I might make my fortune some day 
as a natural — naturalist.” 

Natural ! ” echoed Mrs. Mahon, scornfully. 

Well, if she was a real lady she wouldn’t be 
twitting a poor boy because he is a natural.” 

“ But she said natural-ist, mother.” 

“ It’s all one. It only means a bigger natural, 
alanna.” 

And she said that over in America, where 
her home is, rich ladies paid as much as a pound 
for a bunch of flowers like those I got for her. 
And she said, ‘ What do you call them ? ’ And 
when I said I named them spider flowers because 
they looked like spiders, she said that’s what 
that kind was called pop-u-larly, and she said I 
was observing. I was glad when she told me 
she was American, and I said, ‘ I wonder if you 
know my brother Patrick out there ? ’ Then both 
gentlemen laughed, but she took a little book and 
a pencil, and she says, ‘ I shall be very glad 
to know him when I go home if you will give 
me his address.’ But I didn’t know it, mother. 


102 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


You’ll tell me, won’t you, so’s I can give it to 
her next week ? ” 

If you see her,” said his mother. I’m 
afraid she’s a young lady that’s fond of her 
little joke. But why didn’t you tell me all this 
before, alanna ? ” 

I was thinking about it,” replied the fool. 

‘‘ Don’t think ; don’t think at all,” advised 
this wise woman; ‘‘sensible people try to stop 
thinking.” 

The young American lady came to Ballyvalley 
again the next week, and she readily made out 
the Mahon cottage. The old woman received 
her warily enough, in spite of the irrepressible 
Celtic hospitality, but Miss Knowles disarmed her 
suspicions of merrymaking intent, and delighted 
her by drinking and praising the inevitable “ cup 
o’ tay.” 

The visitor had brought her botanical outfit 
with her, and she took pains to show Tad how a 
grain of sugar is magnified into an immense 
rock of crystal. The widow, too, was interested 
in the “ spy-glass,” as she called it, although 
nothing could persuade her that it was more than 
a toy. As for Tad, he was transported with 
delight. He accompanied Miss Knowles to his 
accustomed haunts with quite a sense of proprie- 
torship. They spent a most delightful afternoon 
collecting “ treasures,” and the boy was in the 


TAD’S FORTUNE 


103 

seventh heaven of happiness. Once, indeed, he 
said to his companion: 

“ You’re not doing this to humor me? ” 

“ To humor you? No, indeed! I am humor- 
ing myself.” 

And,” he ventured, hesitatingly, “ did you 
ever look at flies and things through the glass? 
Because, if you did, I have a lot of them. The 
boys think I bury them, but I don’t. I like to 
look at them.” 

An entomologist, too ! ” murmured Miss 
Knowles. Tad, you’re a genuine naturalist.” 
Tad the Fool looked distressed. 

I can’t help it,” he said, gloomily. 

The young American saw his misconception 
instantly, recollecting that some one had told her 
that “ natural ” and idiot ” were synonymous 
terms in Munster. 

By naturalist,” she explained, gently, “ I 
mean a lover of nature. You would never be 
thought of in a lesser sense by those who could 
understand you. Tad. And yet — ” 

She paused and looked at him. Over his 
ragged corduroys he wore a gaily colored jacket 
of distinctly feminine cut, evidently a wardrobe 
relic of one of his six sisters-. His brown hair 
waved down upon his shoulders, and this, with 
the jacket and his great eyes and slender face, 
gave him a most girlish appearance. 


104 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Miss Knowles lifted one of his locks half- 
playfully. 

Why don’t you have your hair cut?” she 
said. 

The fool glanced up at the shining blonde 
braids fastened to her shapely head with many 
little loops of golden wire. 

Why don’t you cut yours ? ” he asked, with- 
out the least bit of impertinence in his manner. 

She laughed. 

Girls and women wear their hair long,” she 
said. There are funny little yellow men with 
slanting eyes who live in a great place called 
China — that’s where your mother’s delicious tea 
came from — and these ugly little creatures let 
their braids grow long, but sensible white men 
and boys have their hair cut quite close.” 

‘‘ I know,” said Tad. “ They all have their 
hair clipped but me. 'And I think if the Lord 
wanted men to have short hair He wouldn’t let 
it grow long. And in His picture His hair is 
longer than mine.” 

That’s a very good reason,” assented Tad’s 
new friend; “but He lived a long time ago 
ill a far-away land when customs were altogether 
different. Even a hundred years ago men wore 
long hair, but nowadays all that is left to women 
and children. The world is too busy to spend 
time in brushing manly locks.” She laughed 


TAD’S FORTUNE 


105 

softly as she spoke. “ Women are getting to be 
very busy people, too,” she went on, and in 
another hundred years no doubt they also will 
go about ' shavey-headed,’ as our little Yankees 
say.” 

I don’t care much,” said Tad, ‘‘ but if it 
pleases you I’ll have my hair cut off. Though I 
am not busy,” he added, regretfully. 

“ Oh, you will be,” Miss Knowles assured him, 
cheerfully. ‘‘ It’s a great world, and there’s a 
little nook in it for each of us to work in, if we 
can find it.” 

Tad spent many happy hours during that sum- 
mer with his American friend, and the Widow 
Mahon thought Miss Knowles the most good- 
natured lady in the world to be bothering her 
head about playing with poor Tad.” 

But the time for her departure drew near, and 
it was a sad day for Tad when she came to the 
cottage to say farewell. Her uncle and cousin, 
with whom she had been travelling, offered to 
take the boy as far as Dublin, where they pur- 
posed to spend a week, but Tad, to his mother’s 
surprise, refused to go, nor would he accept the 
sovereign which the elder gentleman offered him. 

Don’t you want Patrick’s address ? ” he asked 
the young lady. “ Give it to her, mother.” 

The old woman went to the drawer of the 


io6 THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 

dresser and took out a card on which was 
printed : 

PATRICK MAHON & BROS.^ 

"" CONTRACTORS^ 

SAN FRANCISCO^ CAL " 

“ But I live in Boston/’ said Miss Knowles, 
“ more than three thousand miles from San 
Francisco.” 

I have a son in Boston, too,” said the widow. 
“ He isn’t much better than Tad in a way,” she 
added. “ He’s wild for music, is John, and he’s 
spending his savings at a place called the Con- 
Conser-vatory.” 

‘‘ Oh, Mrs. Mahon, I know him ! ” cried the 
young lady. I’m sure I do! I attend the Con- 
servatory myself. Mr. John Mahon is a wonder- 
fully clever violinist. You have two gifted sons,” 
she said, enthusiastically. 

“ Two ! ” echoed Mrs. Mahon. “ Do you mean 
Tad and John? Well, John has a gift, surely, 
and he has made some money, too. But Tad! 
Ah, Miss Knowles, you should know my other 
children. There’s Patrick and Michael and 
Brian in business together in California, and 
they’re giving Peggy an education, and Martin 
a good trade. And Mary and Bridget are mar- 
ried to prosperous men in Chicago, and Katie 
and Norry are doing finely in England with a 


TAD’S FORTUNE 


107 

milliner’s shop in Manchester town. And there’s 
Liza married to a grocer in Dublin.” 

And Larry in heaven,” added Tad. 

After Miss Knowles had gone, he relapsed into 
one of his “ fits of silence; ” he went about with 
a melancholy visage, and his only comfort was 
in the botanical outfit and the manual which 
she had presented to him. He rambled and 
searched and dug away, until his mother grew 
quite dispirited. 

I’m afraid the American lady’s toys brought 
him more harm than good,” she murmured to 
herself. 

One day a strange thing happened. Tad the 
Fool took a notion to root in the garden at the 
back of the cottage. Miss Knowles had taught 
him to use great care in getting roots in good 
condition for microscopical examination. He 
had loosened the earth about a gigantic weed 
which had grown in a neglected corner. The 
roots were exceedingly long and thready, and, 
as the boy inserted his hand to bring them gently 
to the light, he touched something solid. After 
taking up his specimen, he cleared away the earth, 
and saw what seemed to be a piece of iron. 
Without saying anything to his mother, he took 
the spade and dug the earth up around the spot, 
uncovering a rusty tin box. There was a handle 
in the lid. He tried to lift it, but its weight was 


io8 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


too much for him. Then he went in and told 
his mother. 

“ It’s your grandfather’s box! ” she cried, in- 
spiredly. “We never could find it, and he hid 
it before you were born, alanna.” 

It took their united strength to lift the box. It 
was locked with a padlock, and every inch of it 
was red with rust. Tad loosened the hinges with 
his knife, and lifted the lid. There lay a curious 
assortment of shells and pebbles which the old 
sailor had brought from foreign shores. Tad 
looked pleased with his find, but the old woman 
was disappointed. She handled the stones 
grumblingly. 

“ ’Twas thought he had money,” she said. 
“ He got plenty of bounty in the wars, and he 
was — well — a little close. When he was 
dying, he couldn’t speak, but he kept pointing out 
through the window to the garden, and we 
thought ’twas a posy he wanted, and Liza brought 
him cowslips and daisies. But he died without 
telling us,” she sighed. 

Tad was emptying out the pebbles. Some of 
the shells were strung together like a necklace, 
and there were bits of coral, and sea-beans, and 
a queer old pipe of strange workmanship. 

“ Here’s a bag of something! ” exclaimed Tad, 
suddenly. 


TAD’S FORTUNE 


109 

“ It’s only tobacco for the pipe,” said his 
mother. 

By this time he had all the trinkets out, expos- 
ing a wash-leather bag. 

“ It’s a big lot of tobacco,” remarked the fool. 
As he spoke, he was untying the string. 

Mrs. Mahon gave a little cry. Gold! and so 
much of it! There were all sorts of pieces; the 
old man must have turned his bills and change 
into “ shiners ” wherever he went, for here, be- 
sides coins of the time of William IV., were gold 
Napoleons, and Spanish and Dutch pieces. 

The widow grasped her son’s arm. 

Tad,” she said, ‘‘ you did find your fortune, 
after all, alanna, and you shall go to Dublin — 
to have your head treated.” 

And that’s how Tad the Fool got his start in 
life. His mother went with him as far as Cahir, 
and left him in charge of the “ guard ” on the 
train for Dublin. He had forgotten to get his 
sister’s address, but he thought it did not matter 
much. Nor did it, as the sequel proved. Ar- 
rived at the capital, he wandered out of the 
crowded railway station and along the busy 
streets in utter amazement. When he had walked 
for more than an hour he began to feel weary 
and discouraged. He determined to ask ques- 
tions. A pleasant-faced lady was passing. Tad 
accosted her. 


110 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Please, ma’am, can you tell me where my 
sister Liza lives ? ” 

The simplicity of the question made her smile, 
and she looked curiously at the boy. 

I am somebody’s sister Eliza myself,” she 
said. 

“ And I’m her brother Tad from Ballyvalley,” 
said the fool. 

It was actually his own sister to whom he had 
spoken, which was quite as lucky in its way as 
the finding of the money-box. 

After that he had little trouble. The brothers 
and sisters agreed to leave the money to the 
“ simple one.” It wasn’t a great fortune, after 
all, although it looked so fine in gold pieces, but 
it was enough to pay for Tad in a good school. 
That was the only “ treatment ” he required, so 
Doctor Harkaway said. And by and by it 
helped him with his university expenses, for 
even a scholarship such as he won does not cover 
everything ! 

All this happened a long time ago. Mrs. 
Mahon lived to a great old age, but at last she 
went the way of all mortals, simple and wise. 
As she died in the pleasant summer-time, when 
many of her children with their children were 
visiting the old land. Tad’s mother had “ a great 
funeral.” 

Among the mourners were Mr. and Mrs. John 


TAD’S FORTUNE 


III 


Mahon (Mrs. John had been a Miss Knowles, of 
Boston), and a tall, dreamy-looking man, who 
wore glasses and — yes — actually long hair, 
and to whom Schoolmaster Boyle’s son and suc- 
cessor spoke deferentially, as it became a country 
pedagogue to address a world-famous scientist. 
For the tall gentleman was Professor Thaddeus 
Mahon, F. R. S., of Trinity College. 

He was such a fool! 


CHAPTER IX. 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 

Aunt Dooney was an old mulatto woman, a 
relic of the period “ fo’ de wah,” and a most 
excellent cook. I have no idea how old she was ; 
— maybe ninety for aught I know. She had 
been a slave on the place in the days of “ Ole 
Marse,” my great-grandfather. Grandpapa said 
that she disappeared at the time of the Emanci- 
pation Proclamation, and returned to Storeytown 
twenty years afterward, with a “ long fambly ” 
of children, — half-brothers and sisters, — and 
three ‘‘ maryiage ’stificats.” She had wedded and 
buried a trio of “ colo’d gemmen ’’ during her 
absence. 

When her oldest daughter got married to a 
Storeytown darky, another colored gentleman at 
the wedding fell in love with old Aunt Dooney. 
Three weeks later the coffee-colored widow mar- 
ried Number Four. I don’t know how many 
years this fourth husband lived, but he had been 
dead some time when Aunt Dooney suddenly 

II2 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 


113 

appeared to claim a shelter at MountStuart. She 
attended the funeral of Grandmamma Storey 
(whom she had not known at all) and afterward 
presented herself to Grandpapa, saying: 

“ Don’ yo’ rec’lect me, Yong Marse? I’se 
Dooney, one o’ yo’ ma’s hitching gals. I’se a po’ 
widda, now, Yong Marse, an’ I done come back 
to m’ own folks to live, if yo’ alls wants me. I’se 
a mighty good cook, Yong Marse.” 

So she established herself in the kitchen of the 
Story-Book House, leaving a colony of sons and 
daughters and grandchildren in “ Little Africa,” 
the negro quarter of Storeytown. I’m afraid she 
did not get on with her daughters, who had 
married freemen, “ nobody’s niggers,” as Aunt 
Dooney called all of her race born out of servi- 
tude. She was respected and feared rather than 
loved by the Little Africans, whose freedom she 
held in contempt, although she had taken advan- 
tage of her own liberty at once. 

“ Aoh, Gor bless us ! ” would she say, taking 
her clay pipe out of her mouth, “ talk ’bout yo’ 
freedom, dar was freedom uh money an’ uh kin’- 
ness when we’d jest call out ‘ Chris’mus gif’!’ 
an’ we’d get all we wanted, fo’ de wah. Yas’m. 
’Tso!” 

From a new dress to an old yellow cigar ribbon, 
any sort of “ gif’ ” was perfectly acceptable to 
Aunt Dooney. I cannot imagine what she did 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


114 

with all the trifles she begged, unless, indeed, 
she played Lady Bountiful with them every time 
she visited Little Africa. Nine of her twelve 
children were married, and their nine families 
counted some fifty grandchildren for Aunt 
Dooney, — the Matriarch, as Frank called her. 
Whenever a brand-new little brown stranger came 
to Little Africa to live. Aunt Dooney, as the head 
of “ de fambly,” was called upon to give a name 
to the unfortunate youngster. Usually, she took 
about two days to evolve one of her oncom- 
mon ” cognomens. 

“ It takes steddy,’^ she would say to the appli- 
cant. I gotter steddy up de subjec’ fo’ I gives 
mail erpinion.” 

Once I helped her out of a little difficulty. She 
had great prestige for wisdom in Little Africa, 
and she was just about wise enough to pretend 
to be wiser. I was swinging in the hammock 
near the kitchen-garden, lazily conning the mor- 
row’s lessons, while Aunt Dooney was preparing 
apple-cobbler in the kitchen. I heard her moving 
about, and presently she came out of the glass 
pantry with a dish of russets and a paring-knife, 
and seated herself comfortably on the side-steps. 

“Does yo’ want a napple, chile?” she asked, 
graciously. 

I accepted the proffered fruit, wondering, mean- 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 


115 

while, what sort of an axe waited to be sharp- 
ened. I knew Aunt Dooney pretty well. 

“You have a new grandchild, have you?” I 
hazarded. 

“ Yas, chile, I is. But who done tole yo’ ? 
Yas, ’tso, I got ’nother, an’ in cou’se I gotter name 
it.” Then after a pause, “ I got names fur all 
mah fambly. I reckon I kin gub one to dis’n.” 

Was it possible that her stock of Algernons and 
Ethelindas was giving out? I said nothing, but 
waited watchfully. 

“ Dat worfless Jube Brown was hyar las’ 
night,” she continued, “ an’ he tole me dis hyar 
was a real stylish name.” 

She took from her pocket a newspaper clipping 
which she handed to me. 

“ I don’ think so much uv it,” she said, in a 
tone that contradicted her words, “ an’ yit it do 
soun’ real good an’ full.” 

The “name” was a single line in large type 
cut from a patent medicine advertisement: 

“ SPINAL MENINGITIS.” 

I coughed furiously; I frowned severely; I 
did anything and everything to prevent a fit of 
laughing, which would mortally have offendeti 
Aunt Dooney. 

“ Guess yo’ swallered a bit uh napple wrong 


ii6 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


ways. Wan’ drink, chile? All right ergain, is 
yo’ ? Well, how’s dat name take yo’ fancy ? ” 

I struggled for calmness. Spin-al Men-in- 
gitis,” I repeated, slowly and gravely. 

“ Yas. It do soun’ full, don’ it? ” she queried, 
anxiously. 

“ Yes, it sounds full enough,” said I. “ But, 
Aunt Dooney, it’s — it’s unlucky. It’s a name 
that would give a child a crooked back ! ” 

Gor bless us ! Wait’ll I see Jube Brown ! ” 
cried Aunt Dooney, in great excitement. “ I’ll 
gub him a crooked back, see if I don’ ! ” 

Since I had crushed Spinal Meningitis, I could 
do no less than to help construct a new appellation, 
and as it contained about half the alphabet, I am 
sure it sounded “ full ” enough, even to Aunt 
Dooney’s critical ear. What Zobeyda Agrico- 
lina ” thought of her name when she grew old 
enough to pronounce it without stumbling, is 
more than I can conjecture. 

About a week after this occurrence, I was on 
my way to the hammock in the same shady corner. 
Hearing voices in the kitchen, I stopped short, 
having no taste for ‘‘ overhearings.” Glancing 
through the glass pantry, whose arcaded trans- 
parency afforded a view of the open door of the 
cook’s quarters, I saw Aunt Dooney ladling out 
a great plate of gumbo soup, while seated at the 
kitchen-table, his red handkerchief spread out 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 


117 


upon his knees, and his goggly eyes glistening in 
expectancy, was — Jube Brown ! However he 
had managed to patch up matters with Aunt 
Dooney I know not, but evidently they were once 
more upon the friendliest terms. I stole away 
again very softly, not wishing to confuse the old 
woman with my presence, when she knew that 
I had heard her threaten this very Brown with 
a crooked back. But I had yet to measure the 
sublimity of Aunt Dooney’s indifference to public 
opinion. 

The Matriarch was a sight to see when she was 

all dressed up.’' For visiting, or going to 
church, or upon other state occasions, she envel- 
oped her skirts in an immense white apron, stiffly 
starched, and shining with a genuine flat-iron 
polish. Her Sunday-goHo-meeting head-gear was 
made up of a scarlet handkerchief wound tightly 
around her head, and atop of this a man’s choco- 
late-colored ‘‘ slouch ” hat. As she had not fallen 
into flesh like most old negro women, but was 
very tall and thin, you can imagine her full-dress 
effect when she marched off, “ like a grenadier,” 
Nana said — carrying with her a gigantic prayer- 
book and “ readin’-specs.” Of course she could 
not read a line, but for all that, she never failed 
to carry the book and the spectacles. 

One day Grandme sent me down to the kitchen 
with a gift for Aunt Dooney. It was an old- 


ii8 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


fashioned gown, very light gray poplin. “ Aunt 
Dooney,” said I, “ Grandme thinks you may be 
able to fix up this dress for yourself. See, it’s 
good material, but it’s about the style of Mrs. 
Noah’s travelling-gown. Couldn’t you dye it a 
nice cardinal red?” For the Matriarch dearly 
loved the primary colors. 

Her eyes twinkled surprisingly. It was her 
usual custom to receive gifts with a superb air of 
indifference, as if to say, ‘‘ I’ll take it jes’ to 
please yo’alls, an’ make yo’ feel good.” But 
for once she showed gratification. 

I done dream I’se gwine git frock like dat 
’ar. I d’no whoall Miss Snow was, but if dat ’ar’s 
her trab’lin’-gown she’d mighty good task ’Tso! ” 
She chuckled, as she fingered the pearly, silken 
folds. Then suddenly she stopped short and 
frowned suspiciously. “ Howcome Mis’ Granby 
di’n’t gub dis to Arrishwoman ? ” 

It had been offered to Nana, and I laugh yet 
to think of our old nurse’s majestic refusal. “ Ah, 
then, madam. I’m not so beggarly that I’m after 
seeking cold vittles, — nor yet old clothes. 
Thank ye; I suppose you mean well.” The truth 
is, there was no love lost between Grandme and 
Nana. However, I couldn’t very well explain 
these delicate matters to the touchy Matriarch, 
so I merely stated a self-evident truth. 

Why, Nana is quite fat, Aunt Dooney. You 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 


119 

don’t suppose she could hook this on her? ” hold- 
ing up the scanty bodice. “ Now, your waist, you 
see, is as slim as mine.” Oh, dear! I’m afraid 
I was almost a diplomat in those days! But it 
was no difficult task to mollify Aunt Dooney. If 
it had been Nana — ! 

A few days later I saw the gray dress hanging 
on the line in the back yard. I was full of curi- 
osity about the change in color, and I asked Aunt 
Dooney if she was going to dye it red. 

No, chile. I’m tired o’ red, an’ I’m gwine 
to leave dis hyar frock jes’ color ’tis.” 

Pleased with this evidence of improved taste, 
I ran up-stairs and searched in my dressing-case 
for a little white silk handkerchief which I pre^ 
sented forthwith to the Matriarch. Again she 
was so effusively gratified that I wondered. She 
was a very clever renovator, and the done-over 
dress developed a lovely shade of pearly gray. 
As soon as she had finished pressing it she bundled 
up the gown to take it to one of her daughters 
who was skilful with needle and scissors. 

Some two weeks afterward the parcel was 
brought back by one of her numerous grand- 
children, and the next day Aunt Dooney appeared 
in the light dress, all ready to go out. For a 
wonder, she wore neither white apron nor slouch- 
hat. A cocky little white bonnet was perched on 
her gray wool, and I noticed that my handker- 


120 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


chief was very elaborately shirred on the crown, 
which was further adorned with a monstrous 
white rose. Her brown wrinkled face gleamed 
beneath a veil of coarse white lace, and her skinny 
old hands were concealed in white cotton gloves. 
Grandme didn’t seem to take in all these details. 
She was interested in the dress. 

“ Why, it looks very nice, very nice, indeed,” 
she declared. 

“Yes, it does,” I put in; “you look like a 
bride. Aunt Dooney ! ” 

If it were possible, I am sure the old woman 
would have blushed. As it was, she coughed a 
little before she announced : 

“ I jes’ come say goo’-by. I ain’t cornin’ back 
no mo’.” 

In reply to Grandme’s look of astonishment, she 
said : 

“ Mirandy’s gwine take mah place. She’s a 
right smaht cook — I lamed her mahself. I done 
tole her whut to git fuh Massa’s dinnah, an’ de 
chilluns’ tea.” 

“Yes, but why are you leaving us?” asked 
Grandme. 

Frank, who had been reading, closed his book, 
and looked up curiously at our departing cook. 

We were all looking at her. She enjoyed one 
moment of dramatic suspense, and then, smooth- 
ing down her dress, she said, proudly : 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 


I2I 


I'm gittin’ maryied to-day.” 

Married ! ” we exclaimed, in chorus. Really, 
we thought the old creature was going crazy. 

'' Yas’m; yas, chillun, gittin’ maryied. ’Tso! 
I bin maryied fo’ times a’ready, an’ I reckon I 
kin git maryied ergain. I done gotter nice young 
man dis time. He name Jube Brown. I reckon 
he’ll bury dis ole woman. Dis hyar’s mah maryin’ 
frock.” 

There was nothing for it but to give her a 
wedding present. Frank was quite equal to the 
occasion. On the top shelf of one of the school- 
room bookcases was a Washington directory, 
dated ten years back. It was bound in green with 
gold lettering, and as it had rarely been used, it 
was in prime condition. This treasure Master 
Frank troubled himself to procure. 

Here, Aunt Dooney,” said he, handing her 
the unwieldy volume. My best wishes to you ! ” 

The bride-expectant received the gift with the 
most profuse expressions of gratitude. 

“ Always did say Marse Frank’s gin’rous ef he 
di’n’t show it all time. Some folks dey is like dat, 
waitin’ to gub somepin’ gran’ all to once.” Put- 
ting on the inevitable spectacles, she turned over 
the pages of the directory. I was very uncom- 
fortable, in my efforts to keep from laughing, and 
Frank glanced threateningly at me. But the 


122 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Matriarch was quite unconscious of my agony of 
suppression. 

Dis hyar’s mighty good readinV’ s-he de- 
clared, sagaciously. “ I ’spec’ it’ll gub me loss o’ 
comfuht.” 

By and by Nana came in with Brose and Nellie, 
and Frank told her the news. The Matriarch 
had been gone only ten minutes, and I was not 
yet in condition to speak sanely. Nor was Nana’s 
comment calculated to restore gravity. 

“The old black haythen! Married, is it? 
Married Uve times! Sure, and it’s buried five 
times she ought to be! And there’s people says 
them niggers have souls ! ” This with a dis- 
interested glance at Grandme. “Souls, is it? 
Oyea, they have that same — under their feet ! ” 
We did not learn whether Frank’s present 
gave the expected degree of comfort or not, for 
Mirandy, the Matriarch’s daughter and successor, 
was a surly woman, not at all disposed to be 
loquacious. Whenever she said anything to us, 
it was something like this : 

“ Hyar, yo’ chillun ! clar out, an’ don’ be 
trampin’ ovah mah clean hitching ! ” 

For about six months we saw nothing of Aunt 
Dooney. One wintry day, however, I descried 
the familiar, tall, wiry form marching up the road, 
and I ran to meet her. 

She made an elaborate pretence of not knowing 


OLD AUNT DOONEY 


123 


where she was, and I had to assure her twice that 
she was near our gate before she would consent 
to come in. The bride-Matriarch was most won- 
drously attired that day. Her dress was royal 
purple, her shawl white, and she wore a man’s 
black slouch-hat. In her ears were immense 
rhinestones, and she had a huge black rubber 
ring on one finger. Very ostentatiously she 
carried in her hand a white handkerchief, with 
a deep black border. 

I persuaded cross Miranda to make a cup of 
coffee for her mother, and while she was drinking 
it, I asked, jokingly, alluding to the handkerchief : 
“For whom are you in mourning. Aunt 
Dooney ? ” 

“ Why, Gor bless yo’, chile, di’n’t yo’ know 
mah man was daid ? ” 

“ Your husband? ” I cried, aghast at her cool- 
ness. 

“ Yas. He bin daid a — whole — week. 
Wonder Mirandy di’n’t tell yo’.” 

“ Hoo-oomp ! ” said the sulky Miranda. “ Dat 
fool Jube Brown wa’n’t worf tellin’ ’bout, daid or 
’live.” 

Aunt Dooney winked solemnly at me, and then 
it suddenly dawned upon me that the “ old 
haythen ” must have appropriated her daughter’s 
beau. 

“ Yas, chile, yas,” she went on, unheeding the 


124 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


other’s remark. “ I done maryied and buried five 
husban’s, young an’ ole.” She said this with the 
proud air of a conscious conqueror. ’Tso! I’se 
tellin’ Mis’ Johnsing ’bout it dis mornin’ ovah de 
fence, an’ she says : ‘ But ain’t yo’ gwine in 
mournin’, Mis’ Brown?’ De ig’ ranee uh some 
folks! I up an’ tole her pu’ple’s mournin’, an’ 
white’s mournin’, an’ brack’s mournin’, an’ I says, 
‘ Yo’ pooh creature, yo’ don’ know a full set uh 
mournin’ when yo’ sees it 1 ’ I says.” 

And the Matriarch laughed till the glass ear- 
rings shook, happy to have crushed her neighbor 
with the weight of five-times-widowed wisdom! 

After the old woman left us that evening in 
her variegated “ mournin’ ” we saw her no more. 
The white shawl was all too thin for the season, 
and Aunt Dooney caught a severe cold, which 
developed into pneumonia.' Within a few days 
the newly made widow was herself “ daid,” and 
the silent Miranda, in a burst of pride and confi- 
dence, informed us that Aunt Dooney had the 
bigges’ buryin’ ” ever known in Little Africa. 



“ ‘ YO’ POOH CREATURE, YO’ DON’ KNOW A FULL SET 

UH mournin’ when yo’ sees it.’” 








CHAPTER X. 


UNCLE PAPA^S VIOLET CHAPTER 

Only a violet ! Only a vision of violets ! — 
Look, listen ! 

Behold the gleaming pillars of white marble, 
no whiter than the polished limbs of the living 
children. How beautiful is the city; how mar- 
vellously beautiful its people! Open air life and 
daily baths and athletic exercises have done won- 
ders for satin skin and steely muscles, but these 
men and matrons, these youths and maidens, 
these angelic children, are richly endowed with 
the native beauty which physical culture has made 
so perfect. 

Here is little Thais, daughter of beautiful 
Athene. See how lovely are her long, dark eyes, 
her straight little nose, her dimple-cleft chin, her 
crimson young mouth, her noble forehead shad- 
owed by dark ripples of silken hair! She is 
white-robed and violet-crowned, and there are 
purple blossoms in her little hands. Here is her 
brother, young Demetrius, pupil of Phidias, the 


126 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


sculptor. He goes to meet his master at the 
Parthenon, where the wondrous statues are to 
be placed. There he will see himself in marble; 
the beautiful youth is the model for the Phidian 
ApollO'. He has come from the gymnasium ; his 
skin is still aglow from his plunge in the marble 
pool; there is grace ineffable in every movement 
of the lithe figure in the banded tunic. Some one 
has thrown him a wreath of violets; the young 
Greek wears it carelessly on his rich, dark curls. 
There are violets everywhere; the children kiss 
them, the old philosophers study the veined petals, 
the bride fastens her peplum with bunches of the 
tiny blooms, the dead priestess holds violets in 
her waxen hands. Truly, it is the City of the 
Violets. 

Phidias is immortal ; Thais and Demetrius have 
passed to the Elysian fields ; the baby Socrates is 
playing with Athenian violets. Time passes, the 
philosopher grows old and. dies, and Plato and 
Aristotle walk among the violets. By and by 
there is a queer man sitting in a tub, to whom 
advances the young Macedonian, conqueror of the 
world. We all know that Alexander asked 
Diogenes, “ What can I do for you, philoso- 
pher?” and that the old cynic made answer, 
“ You can get out of my light, king! ” but what 
we do not know is that Alexander said, Thou 
old Gruff-and-Grim, dost thou not know that I 


UNCLE PAPA’S VIOLET CHAPTER 127 

am all-powerful ? ” and that Diogenes, taking a 
little nosegay of purple flowers from the handle 
of his tub, replied, “ I know that thou canst not 
make so much as one little violet, thou In- 
capable ! ” 

The Roman yoke is on Athens ; the people are 
enslaved; their beauty is bought and sold. And 
so, because it is no longer priceless, their honor 
is not worth a price. Greece has degenerated, 
the Parthenon is a ruin, the descendants of the 
brave and wise and beautiful are slaves of the 
heavy-lipped Turk or shambling street-hawkers 
in foreign cities. The City of Violets is dead 
among her withered hopes. 

All through the ages there are queens and 
beggars and poets to honor the little violet, but 
its Grecian glory has perished. At last there is 
born into the old world a boy who might be 
Greek, poet, or warrior. A warrior he is; al- 
ready in his boyhood he makes snow forts and 
defends them; already in fancy he leads his 
legions to victory. But when the snow melts he 
gathers the flowers he loves best, and these are 
violets. When he looks at them he is a poet, and 
his war dreams are forgotten. 

Only a boy still, and a general! It is a pity; 
he might have been a poet. He is leading legions 
across the Alps; he has no thought for so small 
and so sweet a trifle as a violet. But, no; he 


128 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


dismounts on the Ligurian slope as soon as he 
perceives a purple patch of bloom. 

A good omen ! ” he cries, for, being poetic, 
he is just the least bit superstitious. “ Violets, 
Alpine violets ! Look you, Lannes, if I win, this 
shall be my emblem. I have ever had a fancy for 
violets. You smile; ah, well, comrade, I am 
not all soldier ! ” And all that day the little 
man in the gray coat wears a cockade of violets in 
his three-cornered hat. 

He wins, of course; he wins battles and ene- 
mies, and kingdoms and friends. He is the 
modern Alexander, the emperor of the world. 
He is a poet only when he writes the proclama- 
tions to his armies, and when he orders violets 
to be grown in the palace gardens and woven in 
the imperial tapestries. 

His little son is laughing among the violets 
when the great victor becomes a great loser. 
Napoleon is deposed, and people breathe easier 
and talk familiarly of “ Bonaparte,” the Exile of 
Elba. But his soldiers have not forgotten him; 
they do not honor the king thrust upon them. 
“ He will come back to us,” they say, and they 
tell their daughters to have plenty of violets ready 
for the emperor. 

He escapes from Elba; he returns, and on his 
old gray coat he wears a knot of violets. The 
soldiers fling away their white cockades and deck 


UNCLE PAPA’S VIOLET CHAPTER 129 

their rusty chapeaux with Napoleonic violets ; the 
little children strew violets in the path of the man 
who is about to lead their fathers to disaster and 
death. 

It is all over; pity he did not stay at Elba 
and experiment with rhyme; he is a fallen war- 
rior and an exile forever. There are no violets 
on bleak St. Helena; no violets and no victories. 
The world-conqueror says his prayers like a little 
child, and dies. He is buried on the lonely rock, 
and those who still cherish his memory bring 
violets from far-away France and plant them on 
his grave. 

By and by his faults are forgotten, and his 
countrymen think only of the glory he gave to 
his empire. The emperor must not remain on 
that bleak rock ; he wished to be buried in France ; 
his wish must be respected. So after twenty 
years, the illustrious remains are borne home in 
a great funeral ship. As the vessel passes up 
the Seine, the grizzled old soldiers, who have 
journeyed many miles from their inland villages 
to give a last salute to their great commander, 
kneel on the river-bank and weep, as the violet- 
draped ship goes by. The funeral chariot pro- 
ceeds through Paris to the Invalides; there is 
violet crepe on the imperial coffin, and there are 
violets strewn along the route — hot-house vio- 
lets, these, for the weather is bitterly cold. 


130 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


The chapel is draped in violet ; the old soldiers 
who follow the casket have violets fastened on 
their faded uniforms. The emperor is laid to 
rest among thousands of violets. 

‘‘ And I, even I, republican though I am, mes 
enfants, when I went to Paris, I bought an im- 
mense bouquet of violets and placed it on the 
sarcophagus of Napoleon in the Invalides,” con- 
tinued Uncle Papa, who, as you will have guessed, 
was the narrator of this violet story. 

“ But you don’t like Napoleon, Uncle Papa? ” 
objected Frank. “ I’ve heard you say that his 
glory was bought at the price of wholesale 
murder. You do not care for military reputation. 
You have some regard for Bonaparte just be- 
cause — ” 

‘‘ Because he was fond of violets. Because, 
being the boldest of warriors, he loved the most 
modest of flowers. Without an atom of respect 
for imperial purple, I paid my tribute to the Violet 
Emperor ! ” 

Uncle Papa liked us all, but he was fondest 
of Brose, and in the next chapters you may read 
some of the fables invented by our Alsatian 
Frenchman for the especial entertainment of the 
dearest little boy in the world. If you feel too 
grown-up to read Uncle Papa’s little fables. I’m 
sorry for you! 


CHAPTER XI. 


TWO WATER FABLES 

I. THE DISSATISFIED FISH 

Long ago there was a very little fish, a 
minnow, in a brook, the brightest little minnow 
in the whole water-world, his mother said. And 
the little fish heard this so often that he came to 
believe it himself, and began to grumble about his 
brilliancy’s being confined to the narrowness of 
a little brook. Now, his mother had told him 
about Jupiter and the flying-fish. Not at all 
daunted by the lesson conveyed in that story, the 
little minnow prayed that he might become a 
large fish in a mighty river. Immediately he 
found himself larger and brighter; the brook 
widened ; its flowery banks vanished, and the new 
trout leaped for very gladness in a flowing river. 
But no one welcomed him. There is scarcely 
food enough for those who are here already,” 
they complained. And when he told them of his 
wonderful transformation, they said : “ Ah, in- 
131 


132 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


deed ! Perhaps you were a very superior minnow, 
but none the less you are now a very inferior 
trout.” 

It was too true. Nearly every one was larger 
than he, and of a better color. The poor little, 
overpraised fish grew sick with jealousy, yet, 
instead of wanting to be a minnow once more, he 
wished to be the greatest of all water animals in 
the greatest of waters. No sooner had he uttered 
this wish than he found himself swelled im- 
mensely. His head grew square and very large 
in proportion to his body. He looked about him 
and could see no land, and for the first time he 
was frightened. 

You see, a drop of water is nothing; a brook is 
only a thread ; a river is bound between its banks ; 
but an apparently limitless world of water is 
enough to appal even one who lives in the wet, 
as it were. Really, the vast Pacific seemed at 
that moment to be entirely too wet for our poor 
little minnow-trout. Then he found himself in 
the midst of a great congregation of frightful- 
looking creatures, each as large as ten thousand 
minnows, all with big box-heads, all blowing 
noisily to demand an explanation from the new- 
comer. 

He was very much afraid until one oi the great 
creatures pushed him insultingly; then his blood 
began to boil, for he was cold-blooded no longer. 


TWO WATER FABLES 


133 


He retaliated with a nudge of such force that it 
made the aggressor his friend at once. He plucked 
up courage and pushed his neighbors, who re- 
spectfully retreated. Then he, too, began to 
make that curious blowing noise, and what he 
said was, / am a whale and a big one, and 
this ocean is but a basin full of water. / am a 
whale! ** 

So boastful was he that the other whales 
laughed at him and asked : “ Do you think it so 
wonderful, then, to be a whale?” and he an- 
swered : “ Ah, it is wonderful that a minnow 
should become a whale ! ” But they only laughed 
again, for, like all great creatures, they were 
good natured. 

He was happy for a long time in his new 
life. He had plenty to eat, although he would 
never swallow a little fish, and he found plenty of 
room, though he often longed for the green 
banks and pebbly bottom of the little brook. 
Grievances began to come, for greatness invites 
small troubles. A thousand little crab-like crea- 
tures fastened themselves upon him and tortured 
his life. He grew weak from loss of blood, and 
they waxed strong as they fed upon him. He 
complained of his lot. 

‘‘ Alas ! ” said the other whales, “ you cannot 
escape annoyances; we, too, have our share of 
life’s little troubles.” 


134 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


This was no comfort to the minnow-trout- 
whale. He swam furiously to rid himself of the 
barnacles, but they clung only the tighter. He 
travelled so rapidly that he soon found himself in 
sight of some rocky islands, and conceived the 
idea that he would scrape off the parasites upon 
the rocks. So engrossed was he with his small 
annoyances that he did not see a great trouble 
approaching. The whalers espied him, the whal- 
ing vessel sailed toward the prize, a cruelly sharp 
harpoon pierced his head. In the extremity of 
pain he cried aloud, “ I wish I were the minnow 
in the brook once more ! ” 

Even as he spoke the great ocean narrowed and 
narrowed; green banks almost met each other 
over the tiny streamlet; the whale collapsed and 
became again a little minnow in a little brook. 
But now he was old, and no longer brilliant. His 
mother, who had loved him so dearly, was dead; 
the young* minnows laughed at his faded coat; 
worse than all, he had the remembrance of great- 
ness within him, and he found the brook too 
narrow for his spirit. “ It is a cruelly unequal 
world,” sighed he. “ Where — where can I find 
my level ? ” 

Water always finds its level,” sang the brook. 

Then I wish I were water ! ” murmured the 
dissatisfied fish. 

So he was turned into tears and named Discon- 


TWO WATER FABLES 


135 


tent, but, cry as he would, he was never changed 
again. And whenever you see people weeping 
without reason you may know that Discontent 
has blinded their eyes. 


II. — LITTLE DROPS OF WATER 

The great gray cloud opened its folds and the 
little raindrops tumbled down. How they flew! 

“ Look, look ! ” cried Patter. ‘‘ There’s the 
earth! Wonder where we’re going? ” 

Drip-drop : “ Into a brook ? ” 

Fitter : “ Down in a root-cellar ? ” 

Fletter : “ Into a grotto, I should ’say.” 

And they guessed right, every one; but just 
then they found themselves falling on a wet green 
hillside. Running into the spongy earth they 
generously offered themselves to the flower-roots, 
but it had rained so steadily all the day that the 
roots were quite water-filled. So the little drops 
slipped down through little channels in the earth 
until they reached a cool, pearly grotto. 

“ Let us rest here ! ” they cried, for you must 
know that they were very tired after their long 
sky voyage. By and by, other drops followed 
them, and they were all very sociable together 
until the grotto was filled, when Fletter, whose 


136 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


lungs were weak, began to complain of suffoca- 
tion. 

“ It’s too crowded here,” said Patter. ‘‘We 
must try to find a way out.” 

So they scrambled around the sides of the 
grotto, but never a tiny window or door could 
they find. They could not get out through the 
\ entrance because they were unable to climb, and 
in the dark earth-grotto the sun could not reach 
to lift them up. Besides, hundreds and hundreds 
of drops were pattering for admittance. Indeed, 
it must have been a very heavy rainfall on the 
earth up-stairs. 

“ Nothing for it but to work our way out,” 
decided Patter, who seemed to be a born leader. 
“To work, brothers ! One for all and all for 
one!” 

So all the little chisellers worked with a will, 
and in time their united efforts made a tiny crack 
in the rocky wall. “ Wider, wider ! ” ordered 
Patter, forcing his way through. Every little 
drop scrambled after him, each one helping to 
widen the chasm. On they ran through the open- 
ing in the rock, through earth and sand, and — 
air at last. “ Hurrah ! we’re up-stairs again,” 
cried Patter. 

As they trickled out they saw other little 
threads of water escaping from the rocky hillside. 

“ Welcome, comrades! ” said Patter. “ Union 


TWO WATER FABLES 


137 

is strength. Suppose we join forces, one for 
all and all for one ? ” 

“ Agreed, comrade ! ” responded all the little 
crystal threads. When they all ran together you 
should have seen how strong and how swift they 
became ! 

'‘Hurrah, hurrah! No more trickling; now 
we can tumble in a rill-rill-rill ! ” they shouted in 
unison. “ One for all and all for one ! ” 

The little rill ran down the hillside, kissing 
the pretty feet of the buttercups and daisies. 
Presently it sighted two other little rills. 

“ Join hands, comrades,” called our brave, 
clever little rill, “ One for all and all for one ! ” 

So the three little rills ran together in one 
channel, and at that moment Patter made a dis- 
covery. 

“ Goodness gracious, brothers, we’re a brook I 
Hurra-ah ! ” 

The little brook began to sing as it tumbled 
down the hillside, and so sweet was its song that 
every little rill on the slope ran into the brook 
to join the chorus I 

“ One for all, and all for one ; 

That’s the way our strength was won; 

That’s the way our work is done — 

One for all, and all for one ! ” 

Flowers sprang up to listen to the brook’s 
happy family song, and children made hollow 


138 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


pink cups of their hands, and drank from the 
sweet, cool waters. And when they had had 
enough they would say: 

You were a long time coming, dear little 
brook. Please don’t dry up and die and leave 
us!” 

Oh, dear, no — such a strong little brook ; no 
danger of its drying or dying I Fed by every little 
rill on the hillside all summer, you may be sure 
that it was alive and merry in the hot parching 
days when a weak, divided little brooklet would 
have gasped its last. It was the sap of the flowers, 
the comfort of thirsty oxen, the help of weary 
laborers, the delight of little children. It had so 
many Patters and Pitters and Fletters and Drip- 
drops that you could not tell one little globule 
from the other. Some of them stayed in the 
meadow and some of them ran down to the riv- 
ulet, thence to the river, and thence to the ocean, 
and many of them were sun-lifted to the clouds 
again, to tumble down by and by in little crystals 
of snow. 

The next spring when the great sun, the good 
friend of all little water drops, melted the snows 
on the hillside, how our merry brook laughed in 
its dance of surging waters ! It is now so strong 
and so swift that it has hopes of becoming a river 
some day. But I wish — don’t you ? — that our 


TWO WATER FABLES 


139 


little streamlet may remain as it is, forever a 
sweet, fresh brook, forever fed by the hillside rills, 
forever feeding the meadow flowers, and forever 
singing its blithe little chorus — One-for-all-and- 
all-for-one ! 


CHAPTER XIL 


A FOREST FABLE^ A WINTER FABLE, AND A COURT 
FABLE 

I. TO - DAY AND TO - MORROW 

In the Forest of Difficulty dwelt two little 
wood-cutters, named To-day and To-morrow. 
To-morrow had lived in the forest a long time; 
To-day was a newcomer. In those days every 
one had a special motto, and To-morrow’s was 
carved upon the door of his little hut. It was 
"" By and by” To-day read this motto and 
smiled, for To-morrow’s hut was falling to pieces 
for want of repairs. 

To-day sharpened his axe and cut down some 
trees to build a cottage for himself. “ What’s 
your hurry?” asked To-morrow. ‘‘Tarry with 
me awhile.” But To-day only shook his head 
and pointed to the tumbling walls, for he was too 
busy to talk. To-morrow lazily watched him 
chopping and sawing and nailing; but when the 
busy one had finished his snug little home To- 
140 


A FOREST FABLE 


141 

morrow grew jealous and patched up his own 
house. Then he went to visit To-day. 

Your house is not complete,” he said. 
‘'Where is your motto?” 

“ Oh, I do not leave it at home,” said To-day. 
“ I need it every minute, so I must carry it with 
me.” 

And then To-morrow saw a medal which hung 
from To-day’s neck, and which bore one word, 
“ Now.” 

“ That’s too short for a motto,” said the lazy 
one. 

“ Life is short,” replied To-day. “ Excuse me; 
I must go to work.” 

“ When ? ” asked To-morrow. 

“ Now,” said To-day, pointing to his motto. 
And, putting his axe on his shoulder, he marched 
into the forest. Again To-morrow grew jealous, 
and he, too, set to work. He knew where the 
most valuable trees were, but he would not tell 
To-day. So while To-day cut down pine and 
ash-trees. To-morrow hewed cedar and oak. 
When To-day stopped working. To-morrow also 
stopped. 

“ Fm going to sell my valuable wood by and 
by,” said To-morrow. And he went to sleep for 
a month. When he awoke. To-day’s wood was 
sold, and that prompt worker had another load 


142 THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 

ready. It was cheap wood, also, and To-morrow 
laughed. 

Ah, you didn’t find the best trees yet,” he 
said. ‘‘ Wait until you see the price I’ll get for 
my wood by and by, — by and by ! ” And then 
he went to sleep for a year. 

When he awoke again his roof was tumbling 
in, and he had grown so stiff that he could not 
work. But he hobbled out and beheld To-day 
standing in the doorway of his own mill, which he 
had built during To-morrow’s long lazy fit. To- 
morrow rubbed his eyes. 

“ Ah ! ” he sighed ; “ I, too, must build a mill 
by and by, : — by and by.” 

By and by leads to Never,” said To-day. “ I 
have bought the forest — good trees and all.” 

“ Alas ! ” cried To-morrow ; “ would that I 
had made better use of my time ! ” 

So, instead of “ By and by,” he said 
Good-by ” to the forest. And he was never 
seen again. 

In the Forest of Difficulty To-day’s workers 
never say “ By and by.” Sometimes the trees 
whisper: “Where is To-morrow?” 

And the workers’ answer has passed into a 
proverb : 

“ T o-morrow never comes. Our work belongs 
to To-day.^* 


A FOREST FABLE 


143 


II. — THE SPIRIT OF COLD 

The Spirit of Cold blew his ice-trumpet, and 
the winds wailed to the echo. Ag^ain the Spirit 
blew the icy notes, and the birds shivered and 
flew away to the warm South-land. 

Ah, but the flowers cannot fly ! ’’ cried the 
Spirit, and he touched every pretty blossom with 
his frosty fingers. And some of the flowers died 
when he touched them,; but others fell asleep, 
saying: “ We shall be awake next spring! 

“ The beasts cannot fly,” said the Cold Spirit, 
and again he blew a blast from his trumpet of 
ice. But the wild beasts ran away to their caves 
and dens, where the cruel Spirit could not follow 
them, and the tame beasts were cared for by men 
who gave them shelter. 

Ah, these men ! ” cried the Spirit of Cold, in 
anger. “ They have no feathers, no leaves, no 
fur; yet they make clothes from flax and from 
cotton and from the wool of the sheep. I will 
kill these men.” 

Then he blew shrill notes from his trumpet, and 
laughed when he saw men’s noses turning blue 
with cold, and little boys and girls blowing upon 
their cold-stiff fingers. But the great mill-wheels 
turned faster and faster, and more wool was spun 
into yarn, and yarn woven into cloth and flannel, 
and cloth and flannel cut out and sewed into 


144 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


warm garments for men and women and boys 
and girls. And from the skins of beasts were 
made gloves and shoes to keep out the cold. So 
when the Cold Spirit blew again, every one had 
warm clothes, and the icy breath brought roses to 
pale cheeks. Indeed, there were so many rosy- 
cheeked girls and boys that the Spirit of Cold 
could not help saying, “ How pretty ! Did I 
paint that pink color on those young faces ? ” 

But the Spirit grew naughty again, and ran 
down Poverty Alley, where clothes were thin and 
where cheeks were pale. And the Cold Spirit 
sounded his trumpet of ice, and poor little starved 
babies shivered and died, and poor women wept 
and wanted to die, too, and little girls and boys 
were hungry and cold and sick. 

Oh, ho ! ” laughed the cruel Spirit. “ I will 
kill all these people ! ” 

But good men and women came with milk and 
bread and meat and warm clothes, and the poor 
men grew brave, and the women and children 
became strong, and no more little babies died 
in Poverty Alley that winter. The poor little 
girls and boys ran out, too, like other children, 
and laughed at the Cold Spirit when he blew the 
pretty roses into their cheeks. 

“ I must work harder,” thought the Spirit of 
Cold. So he made a new trumpet of ice, and he 
blew a keen North Wind through it. Oof! — it 


A FOREST FABLE 


145 


was so cold that every one ran indoors. But the 
Spirit went to the doors and windows and blew 
the North*ern blast through cracks and keyholes, 
crying, “ I will freeze all mankind ! ” 

But men had gone down deep into the earth 
and had dug up millions of tons of coal; they 
had gone to the forest for train-loads of wood, and 
when the Cold Spirit came, they were ready for 
him, — ready with glowing fires that warmed 
every corner of their houses. And the people 
gathered at the cheerful firesides, and the Spirit 
of Cold heard many saying : “ How good God is 
to give us coal and wood to burn, that we may 
drive away the cold ! Ah, but we must not forget 
the poor. We must send a ton of coal and a 
load of wood to Poverty Alley ! 

And the Spirit of Cold ran away, crying: 

They have my old enemy, the Spirit of Fire, 
for their servant. He will kill me if I linger.” 

So the Cold Spirit went to the river. “ Here 
Fire cannot come,” he said. “ The Spirit of 
Water is the foe of the Spirit of Fire.” 

No, no! ” cried the Water Spirit. “ Fire is 
my good friend now. He changes me into the 
Spirit of Steam. When I am Water I may turn 
slow mill-wheels, but when I am Steam I can 
pull boats and trains, and work great city mills, 
and heat houses, and — ” 

“ How dare you speak of heat ? ” cried the 


146 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Spirit of Cold, angrily. And he took out his icy 
key and locked up the Water Spirit beneath a 
great door of ice. Ha-ha-ha! the boys and girls 
ran out and skated merrily on the frozen river. 

“ I have given them a new game, it seems,” said 
the Cold Spirit. “ But I shall kill them yet. I 
can kill them with snow.” 

Then he poured the white flakes all over the 
streets and roads and roofs and fields. But the 
children played with balls of snow and made 
snow men, and coasted down-hill on their new 
sleds. 

Only more fun for every one I ” cried the 
Spirit of Cold. “ It seems that I can do no harm. 
Perhaps — perhaps — Pd better try to do good ! ” 

So he ran off to a Southern country, where the 
heat was killing people. There he blew gently 
on his trumpet until he drove disease away from 
the land, and every one said, “ God bless the 
Spirit of Cold ! ” 

III. — KING STEADV's HEIR 

Once upon a time the wise and good King 
Steady fell ill of an abscess in the throat, and 
the doctors said that he must die of starvation, 
because he could not swallow his food. 

As he had no sons, a dispute arose among the 
lords who stood nearest to the throne as to which 


A FOREST FABLE 


147 

of them should succeed to the crown in the event 
of King Steady’s death. 

‘ ‘ I — think — Fd — like — to — be — king,’ ’ 
drawled Lord Lazybones. It’s easy work, and 
I could sleep as — long — as — I — liked — in 
the morning.” 

Pshaw ! ” cried Lord Greedy. Who cares 
for sleeping? Let me sit in the king’s place, 
so that I may eat whenever I wish, and as much 
as I please ! ” 

Eating and sleeping, indeed ! ” said Lord 
Lofty, with much disdain. ‘‘ Is there nothing 
else to live for, you beasts? I must be your king. 
Who is so great as I ? Lord Beauty, I grant you 
permission to kiss the hand of your future sov- 
ereign ! ” 

But Lord Beauty, peeping in the mirror, and 
simpering, paid no attention to this gracious offer. 

I think the crown would be most becoming to 
me,” said he. “ And when I’m king, I’ll have 
a hundred different court robes, and twenty dif- 
ferent crowns, and I’ll have — I’ll have — gold 
heels to my shoes ! ” 

“ What a fine lot of kings you’d be ! ” growled 
Lord Fierce. But don't trouble yourselves : I 
will take the crown, and defy the world to ques- 
tion my right ! I shall have a vast army, and 
weaker kings must yield their thrones to me. 
Every one shall fear me. Brr-r-r-r! Why, I 


148 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


mean to cut off the head of any one that dares to 
look at me, unless I order the look ! ” 

So they talked, each for himself, caring nothing 
for the feelings of poor, sick, helpless King 
Steady, who was obliged to hear what plans these 
false, selfish courtiers had built upon his death. 
Only one lord had not spoken. 

“ Why have you said nothing, Lord Ready ? ” 
asked the king, in hoarse, feeble tones. 

“ Because my king yet lives,” replied Lord 
Ready, “ and also because it is hard to be a just 
king to all men. Still, if I were king — ” 

“ Yes, — well?” 

“ I think I should try to rule my own desires 
before attempting to rule the lives of other 
people,” said Lord Ready, quietly. 

At this the Lords Lazybones, Greedy, Lofty, 
Beauty, and Fierce became very angry, and they 
all glared so wildly at Lord Ready that the sick 
king, always quick to note anything absurd, began 
to laugh. And he laughed, and he laughed, until 
— what do you think ? — the abscess in his throat 
was broken in a long ha-ha-ha ! 

So the wise and good King Steady got well, 
and lived many years. Before he died, he named 
Lord Ready for his heir. 

You were all too willing to be king,” he said 
to the other lords. 

And they answered : 


A FOREST FABLE 


149 


“Was not Lord Ready also willing?” 

“ Ah, it is one thing to be willing, and quite 
another thing to be willing and ready ! ” quoth 
the wise old king. 

Now, if you have skipped the fables, perhaps 
you will find the next story more to your taste, 
a veritable Grownup-town tale. It is Uncle 
Papa’s, too. I think he was very well acquainted 
with Robin Goodfellow. 


CHAPTER XIII. 




ROBIN GOODFELLOW'S WISDOM 

Once upon a time, Grownup-town might have 
been found on the old map of Severica. It was 
a peculiar community, inasmuch as no children 
were allowed within its precincts until after a 
certain memorable Hallowe’en. Grownup-town 
had four gates, like an ancient city, and they 
were put on diagonally, in this fashion — N. E., 
S. W., N. W., S. E. Really, if one were not clever 
at remembering, these alphabetical barriers might 
have been puzzling. One old gentleman in 
Grownup-town always called the gates ‘ News- 
News, which, for a mere Grownup, wasn’t at all 
a bad anagram. 

This old gentleman was fully twenty-nine years 
of age, and he was quite ready to die. He had 
given his order to the undertaker, and his friends 
were very busy getting their mourning prepared. 
As he was exceedingly good-natured, every one 
was sorry in anticipation of his demise. No one 
lived beyond thirty in Grownup-town. It was 


ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S WISDOM 151 


one of the queer rules of the queer place. And so, 
when each inhabitant had attained the age of 
twenty-nine years, eleven months, and four 
weeks, he or she surrendered whatever property 
might have been' acquired in twelve years, and 
after having made all necessary arrangements, 
invariably expired on the last second of the last 
minute of the last hour of the last day. 

You may wonder where new citizens could be 
secured to take the place of those who had de- 
parted. There was no difficulty about that. Once 
a year, on November ist, the gates N. E., S. W., 
N. W., S. E., were thrown open and eighteen- 
year-olds admitted. It is but fair to the Grownups 
to state that they always issued a proclamation, a 
month in advance of “ Admission Day.” This 
proclamation stated distinctly that candidates for 
admission to Grownup-town must be neither more 
nor less than eighteen years old, and that their 
term of residence could not exceed twelve years, 
since no Grownup had ever lived to be thirty-one. 

Why, then, were the gates N. E., S. W., 
N. W., S. E., besieged with applicants on every 
annual Admission Day? Alas! the Board of 
Aldermen gave to each new citizen a thousand 
dollars. Very little, you would say, for the 
enormous price of an early death. Alas, and 
alas again! Did not every candidate confidently 


152 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


agree to himself that he would live to a good 
old age, whatever others might do? 

Was GrownupHtown, then, an unwholesome 
place? Not at all. It was charmingly situated, 
with plenty of park grounds, pure water, broad 
streets, and the combined attractions of country 
air and city conveniences. There never was such 
a tidy place! There were no peanut wagons, no 
banana stands, no red balloon men, no broken 
toys. In a word, no boys and girls! Landlords 
never quarrelled with tenants on that score. It 
was as easy to rent a house — as — to die. 

The old gentleman of whom I have spoken had 
been thinking very seriously, after the manner of 
all twenty-nine-year-old Grownups. Another odd 
custom of Grownup-town was that no one had 
a long first name, a single letter doing duty in- 
stead. This gentleman’s name was C. Welle, and 
as I have said, he had been thinking of his ap- 
proaching end. He looked back over the years 
that had vanished since he, an eighteen-year-old, 
had passed the Rubicon(s) of N. E., S. W., 
N. W., S. E. He had been a comely youth, tall 
and slender, with bright eyes, satiny cheeks, and 
brown curls. And he had sold his life-right for 
a thousand dollars, confident that thirty would 
mean sixty and perhaps ninety years old, before 
he need leave beautiful Grownup-town. 

He smiled bitterly. He had been disillusioned 


ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S WISDOM 153 

during the past dozen years. Liife moved heavily 
in the place from which childhood had been ban- 
ished. At twenty-four C. Welle had been a bald- 
headed, middle-aged man. At twenty-nine he 
was stooped, his few remaining locks were silver 
white, his teeth had fallen out, and in every 
respect he was like an old man of ninety in the 
world outside Grownup-town. He fondly called 
himself twenty-nine still. But on the 2d of 
November he would be thirty, and he had not 
taken to his death-bed on the 31st of October. In 
fact, he determined to take a walk. 

‘‘ It will be the last,” he said, sadly. I go 
to-night to look through the gate which I closed 
behind me long ago.” 

He was very feeble, and it was with difficulty 
that he made his way to the N. E. gate. 

Shadowy forms were without. He suddenly 
remembered that it was Hallowe’en, and recollec- 
tions of the boyish pranks of the past crossed 
thoughts with stories of spirits reappearing on 
November eve. He felt no fear; curiosity 
prompted him to peer through the gate. 

Strange spirits these! Laughing, and talking, 
and cheering, a crowd of rosy-cheeked youths and 
maidens. He remembered with a pang that the 
morrow, November the ist, would be Admission 
Day. On the 2d he must be dead, so that one 
of these could take his place. Here they were, 


154 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


all eager to enter, all hopeful of living long to 
enjoy their good fortune. He made up his mind 
to warn them. 

Beware ! ” he cried. “ Remain without if you 
value life ! ” 

But the young people laughed. 

“ Look at me,” he said, again. “ I am not yet 
thirty, and I am dying of old age.” 

They laughed louder.- 

'' He is ninety, if a day,” said one. 

And then : 

“ How much are you worth, Graybeard ? ” 

'' Two days,” he answered, gloomily. “ But 
you mean money-worth. I shall leave one hun- 
dred thousand dollars. And yet, how foolish, 
how reprehensible — ” 

But they would not let him preach, so enthusi- 
astically they cheered. “ Hurrah for Grownup- 
town and its rich fortunes ! ” and one sang : 

“We are candidates for full admission, 

And we accept each stern condition. 

For, don’t you see, 

We know that we 
Can comprehend the whole position: 

A thousand, ah! ’twill multiply 
Into a million ere we die.” 

It was useless to speak to them. They were 
money-blinded, just as he had been. He sighed 
and turned away. An odd sound behind him. at- 


ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S WISDOM 155 

tracted his attention — a little continual pitter- 
patter like the rustle of dropping leaves. He 
paused a moment. Pshaw! it was the sound of 
falling leaves. What more natural on November 
eve? 

Yet he certainly heard something like a laugh 
— a thin little whistling laugh. He looked all 
around him. Suddenly a mocking voice floated 
up from somewhere: 

“ C. Welle! C. Welle! You can’t see well! ” 

Involuntarily he turned his gaze on the ground. 
There stood a little man, fourteen inches high, 
clad all in brown. As C. Welle looked closer he 
saw that the little man had big round brown eyes, 
a brown hood over brown locks, a golden brown 
beard, and quite a beautiful tawny brown com- 
plexion. 

“A fairy!” cried C. Welle. 

No such a white-faced thing! ” retorted the 
little fellow scornfully. A Brownie, if you 
please, sir.” 

“ But,” hesitated C. Welle, ‘‘ I thought Brown- 
ies were beneficent spirits, and surely, Hallowe’en 
is a night for prankish fairies ? ” 

‘‘Yes,” assented the Brownie; “that’s very 
true in the outside world. But here in Grownup- 
town the tricky fays would have nothing to do. 
You see, all the mischief has been done by the 
Grownups.” 


156 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“Mischief!” echoed C. Welle, indignantly. 
“ Why, there isn’t a boy or girl in the whole 
town.” 

He was really angry at the aspersion cast 
upon Grownup-town. What he felt was a sort 
of proprietary indignation; he was a member of 
the Board of Aldermen, a senior member now, 
and he had been mayor twice, serving each term 
of four months with Grownup wisdom and 
dignity. 

The Brownie laughed. 

“You have been good enough to say that 
Brownies are beneficent sprites,” he said. “ Now, 
it has occurred to me that on Hallowe’en, when 
the mischievous fays are abroad in other places, 
it might be wise to visit this horrible Grownup- 
town and see what good we Brownies could do.” 

The old Grownup began to protest, but the 
Brownie stopped him. 

“ I know all about it,” he said. “ You make 
your laws and you keep the boys and girls out. 
Your town is clean and tidy, and you are all 
thriving — especially the undertaker and the 
tombstone cutter. Now, I have a plan. I fol- 
lowed you to-night because I know that your 
heart has not shrivelled up in Grownup-town. 
You are to die the day after to-morrow, are you 
not?” 

C. Welle shuddered. 


ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S WISDOM 


157 


And you will have attained the great age 
of thirty,” the Brownie went on. Now look at 
me. On the day after to-morrow (November 2d 
is my birthday, too) I shall be, — let me see, — 
seven and two and five and sixty-three over ; yes, 
I shall be one thousand four hundred and sixty- 
three years old ! ” 

His listener looked at him in amazement. 

'' You are — you are — ” 

“I am — the original Robin Goodfellow ! ” 
finished the Brownie, proudly. 

‘‘And Puck?” 

“ Oh, yes. Puck. That’s one of my names. I 
put it into Shakespeare’s head when he was writ- 
ing ‘ Midsummer-Night’s Dream.’ Yet he made 
me appear mischievous, and that I’ve never been. 
But we wander from the subject. Would you like 
to live fifty years longer ? ” 

“Would I — could I? Oh, R. Goodfellow, 
you are good, fellow. Only tell me how ! ” 

“ There’s the usual lot of fools outside the 
gates clamoring to get in,” said the Brownie, 
“ but among them at the S. W. gate there is 
a little child. This child can be the means of 
prolonging your life, for know, oh foolish wise- 
man, that when your people banished the children, 
they banished innocence and sweetness and joy, 
and they invited old age to creep on apace. In 
the outside world children are tolerated, and 


158 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


often treated kindly, and thus people live to be 
eighty, and sometimes ninety or one hundred. 
One reason for my great age is that I love chil- 
dren, not in the careless way of worldlings, but 
with an absorbing devotion. And there is another 
reason : I have no love for money.” 

He looked sharply up at his tall companion. 

“ You are worth a hundred thousand dollars,” 
he said. “ To-morrow it will be confiscated by 
the Board of Aldermen. A thousand new citi- 
zens will be admitted, and each will receive a 
thousand dollars. Am I right ? ” 

C. Welle bowed. 

‘‘ That will require a million dollars, and to 
meet the demand the sum must be in the treasury. 
Suppose the treasury should be empty, what then ? 
No new citizens. So I propose to send my army 
of Brownies to empty the coffers.” 

“What good will that do?” asked C. Welle. 

“ Haven’t I told you? No premium offer, no 
citizens.” 

“And then?” 

“ Why, children will be admitted, of course ! ” 
he cried, triumphantly. “ And now, as the first 
step, give me your fortune.” 

“ They will demand it to-morrow,” objected 
the old citizen. 

“ What then ? It will only be missing, like 


ROBIN GOODFELLO'W’S WISDOM 159 

the rest. Give it to me. I give you my word 
I will return it to you in a week.” 

C. Welle smiled grimly. 

“ In a week I shall have been dead five days,” 
he said. 

‘‘ Not if you will be guided by me. I have 
lived fifteen centuries because I love little children 
and despise money. I don’t expect you to hate 
your gold, — that wouldn’t be natural in a world- 
ling, — but you must give up the cash for a time, 
and you must take a little child this very night.” 

They had been walking all this time, and now 
they stood in front of C. Welle’s mansion. 

“ You have prospered in Grownup-town,” 
remarked Robin Goodfellow. 

Yes,” answered C. Welle. I bought ceme- 
tery lots with my thousand dollars when I came, 
and I sold them again at a good profit. I am 
rich, and yet I can claim but a corner in the 
cemetery after to-morrow.” 

“ Don’t be depressed,” said the Brownie. “ You 
began by making a corner in cemetery lots, you 
know.” 

They entered the house, and when they 
emerged, Robin Goodfellow carried a tin box as 
large as himself. To the owner’s surprise, the 
box gradually dwindled down to correct Brownie 
proportions. 

How did you do that? ” he cried. 


i6o THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 

“ Can’t explain at length,” replied Robin. 
“ Pressed for space. Now, Mr. C. Welle, if you 
will come to the S. W. gate I’ll get you your life- 
preserver.” 

The crowd of applicants at this gate was quite 
as large and as noisy as at the other. The 
clamoring candidates did not observe the 
Brownie, as he slipped through the bars and re- 
turned with a little boy. 

“ Here,” he said, laying the child’s hand in 
C. Welle’s trembling palm. “ Take him home 
and be good to him. Good-by, good boy; see 
well, C. Welle!” 

In a moment he was gone. 

C. Welle looked at his little companion, and a 
thrill of delight went through him. In twelve 
years he had not seen the face of a child. Now 
Grownup-town no longer deserved its name. 
One of the unbidden was within its gates. C. 
Welle feared detection. If the little fellow 
should be discovered he would be sent back, and 
Robin Goodfellow’s plan must fail. 

‘‘ I wish I could carry him,” C. Welle mused. 

A new feeling of strength had come to him 
with the first contact of the little soft hand. He 
stooped and lifted the child with more ease than 
he could have taken up a leaf the day before. 
Thus he carried his burden unperceived and 
returned home a wiser and a gladder man. 


ROBIN GOODFELLO'W’S WISDOM i6i 


The following day a committee of aldermen 
waited upon C. Welle. They seemed to be very 
much perturbed about something, and they were 
greatly shocked to find Mr. Welle sitting up and 
looking better than he had appeared for twelve 
months. 

‘‘My dear C. Welle,” said the spokesman, 
whose name was D. Clare; “ I am astonished that 
a man of your wisdom should prefer to die in a 
chair.” 

“ Perhaps I shall not die yet,” ventured C. 
Welle. 

“ He is getting childish,” whispered B. Sharpe, 
another of the committee. “ Do not pay any 
attention to his ravings. Demand the money 
formally.” 

“ Mr. Welle,” said D. Clare, “ you have been 
in Grownup-town the full term of years. We 
have looked up to you for the past four years as 
a model of wisdom. You know the laws. To- 
morrow you die and your fortune goes to the 
admission fund.” 

“ My fortune has disappeared,” said C. Welle, 
quietly. 

The committee turned individually and collect- 
ively pale. 

“And all the rest of the fund is missing!” 
cried B. Sharpe. “Dear Mr. Welle, did your 
money disappear very mysteriously ? ” 


^HE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


162 

Very mysteriously,” asserted C. Welle. 

We did not wish to disturb your last hours 
with the bad tidings,” said D. Clare, “ but I 
declare it annoys us very much to find that your 
superb fortune has gone with the rest.” 

Gone with the rest! ” echoed C. Welle. 

Affairs were in a bad state all day in Grownup- 
town. A stormy meeting of citizens gathered to 
discuss the robbery. It was decided unanimously 
that no new citizens could be admitted, unless 
they would enter without bounty. A herald was 
sent to each of the four gates to proclaim this de- 
cision. Ten minutes afterward the gates were 
deserted. 

The next day a singular thing happened. C. 
Welle kept on living. The following day the 
phenomenon was repeated. Such a thing had 
never been known in the annals of Grownup-town. 
Actually, the man had entered on his thirty-first 
year! It was an isolated case, for the 999 
thirty-year-olds who had been admitted with C. 
Welle at the age of eighteen died very dutifully 
on the eventful day — their thirtieth birthday. 

The next day the entire Board of Aldermen 
called on the oldest resident. Among the visitors 
was a physician, a grave, elderly man of twenty- 
seven. He examined the aged Grownup care- 
fully, and declared that, so far from showing any 
signs of dissolution, Mr. Welle was actually gain- 


ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S WISDOM 163 


ing strength hourly. Those who looked at him 
could not doubt this. C. Welle had regained his 
rosy color, he walked erect, his eye was bright, 
his speech clear, and his judgment sound. The 
succeeding day found him still better, and a sci- 
entific committee was appointed to wait on him 
and to ask whether he had discovered the secret 
of prolonging Grownup life. Mr. Welle replied 
that he had discovered such a secret, but that he 
could not be induced to divulge it except under 
promise that it should be adopted by Grownup- 
town. 

Another meeting was held, and the result was 
that all the aldermen’s signatures appeared on a 
pledge to adopt C. Welle’s “ invention.” They 
were so anxious to live long, those aldermen ! So 
C. Welle gave away his secret by writing on a 
paper three words. These were: 

''Admit children free.” 

" Proof, proof ! ” cried the eager aldermen. 

The rejuvenated Grownup immediately pro- 
duced his “ proof,” none other than the little 
yellow-haired lad who had brought youth and 
strength to C. Welle. The child, who had been 
named D. Scoveree, was brought out and feasted 
to his heart’s content, and the new measure duly 
formed an amendment to the constitution of 
Grownup-town. 

As for the missing money, it returned as mys- 


164 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


teriously as it had disappeared. Thanks to little 
D. Scoveree, Mr. C. Welle was quite a young 
man by the end of the week. When Christmas 
came Robin Goodfellow sent a message by one 
of his trusty Brownies: 

“ I hear that Grownup-town is to be changed 
to Growing-town. Be good to little D. Scoveree. 
Tell the other Grownups that they must treat the 
children properly, else will I come next Hallow- 
e’en to punish the selfish hard-hearts. C. Welle, 
see well, I wish you well! 

“ Robin Goodfellow.” 

In Growing-town the streets are not so quiet 
as they once were, but the people don’t seem to 
mind. There are cycling clubs and baseball and 
football clubs and toy shops. As for confec- 
tioners and fruiterers, they are making a' fortune. 
Small wonder that children are eager to go to 
Growing-town, where they are so well treated! 
No need for the Brownies to visit that popular 
town, since there is no more good work for them 
to do. Who knows? Perhaps they may come 
to reform some other place next Hallowe’en. 
Look out, Grownups ! Admit children free! 


CHAPTER XIV. 


AN IRISH FAIRY TALE 

Tell us a story ! ” 

It was raining ; it was five o’clock in the after- 
noon ; there was a bright fire in the nursery grate, 
and Nana, our dear old nurse, was in high 
good humor because — no matter about the “ be- 
cause ! ” Sufficient to say that the conditions for 
story-telling were ideal. And so we children sat 
down on the rug and gazed expectantly at Nana. 

The old woman took off her spectacles, upon 
the glasses of which the glow of the fire was re- 
flected too dazzlingly for her weakened eyes. The 
mended stocking dropped into her lap, and her 
wrinkled hands clasped contentedly above it as 
she began : 

‘‘ Once upon a time — ah, then, but what sort 
of a story’ll I tell ? ” 

Oh, Nana, you are too bad!” I exclaimed, 
pettishly. ‘‘ I thought you had begun ! ” 

Tell a ghost-story,” suggested Frank. 

165 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


1 66 

Brose chimed in, “ Yes, ghostus, Nana,” and 
little Nellie echoed, shrilly, “ Dostus, Nana!” 

“ How’d a tale o’ the Good People do? ” said 
Nana, meditatively. 

Aw, good people ! we’re always hearing 
that,” objected Frank, who detested what we used 
to call “ Pious-Peter stories.” 

Nana laughed. “ I mean the fairies,” she ex- 
plained. “ In Ireland we call them the Good 
People, because if we didn’t they’d — they’d — ” 

“They’d be bad people?” I supplemented. 

“ Just that,” said Nana. “ Well, then, once 
upon a time, in Ireland, when the Little Good 
People lived in their raths all over the country — 
But how do I know you haven’t heard it before ? ” 

Nana, as she grew older, was apt to interrupt 
herself sometimes, to our intense annoyance. We 
all looked at her in silent protestation — except 
Brose, who cried, eagerly : 

“ Oh, no ; we didn’t never hear it yet I ” 

Brose always was too knowing. Nana smiled, 
and went on : 

“ Well, anyhow, the Little Good People lived 
in their raths, and anybody that would go near 
one of the hills after sundown would see sights 
and hear wonders. There were two lads in the 
village of Emly, and if there were two good 
friends anywhere, ’twas Austin and Larry. 
Austin was a dreaming sort of a boy, always 


AN IRISH FAIRY TALE 


167 


thinking po’try, and Larry was just the opposite, 
wide-awake and full o’ fun. But they were great 
friends, for all their difference. 

Larry’d tell his tricks to Austin, and Aus- 
tin’d read his verses to Larry, and one’d admire 
th’other for what he couldn’t do himself. And 
though Austin made up po’try about Larry, Larry 
wouldn’t play jokes on Austin at all, at all, 
until — There is always that ^ until ’ to bring 
mischief, children.” 

Nana looked solemnly at us, and we tried to 
look as solemnly at her in return. I know I did 
not change countenance, although Frank at- 
tempted to tweak my arm slyly, — as if pinching 
one’s elbow could hurt! 

Austin was kind o’ delicate like,” continued 
Nana. ‘‘ He was to study for the priesthood 
after he would get a bit stronger. And Larry, 
big rosy fellow that he was, was to be a cattle- 
dealer, so his father said, who was one before 
him, but Larry thought in his own mind it’d be 
finer to be a sojer. As for the Emly people, sure 
they thought that since Larry wasn’t an imp, it’s 
a play actor he ought to be for all his tricks. And 
be the same token, a wandering actor came to the 
village one time, and had a show all by himself, 
making little wooden figgers talk and throwing 
his voice hither and thither. I don’t know what 
you’d call him.” 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


1 68 

“ A ventriloquist,” said Frank, promptly. 

“ Eh, maybe. It’s a long word — vin — vin — 
ah ! sure ‘ fairyman ’ is easier, and that’s what 
the Emly children called him. But Larry watched 
him close, and tried to do like things himself, and 
found he had the power, too, but he didn’t know 
how to use it. So what did he do but strike up 
a friendship with the fairyman — he could make 
friends with any one, could Larry, if he liked. 
And the man took a fancy to him and showed 
him the way of it, and wanted him to go about 
with him. But Larry’d rather play tricks at 
home, and you may be sure it’s many a queer 
trick he played on the people after he’d learned 
to throw his voice round like the fairyman. And 
sorra one knew how ’twas done nor who did it; 
sure the little vagabond didn’t even tell Austin, 
and him his best friend. 

“Well, to make a long story short, as I said, 
he never played a trick on Austin till the strong 
temptation came. It was this way. He found 
Austin dreaming away as usual one day as late 
as ’tis now, and where was the dreamer but in 
the graveyard, stretched on an old grave and 
talking out loud in his dreams, like all poets do, 
as I’m told. And Larry, for fun, hid behind 
a little hill opposite and listened. And Austin 
said, like this : 


AN IRISH FAIRY TALE 


169 


“ Where go ye, oh spirits, 

When the grave is dug? 

Your failings and your merits 
Alike are — 

** ‘ Are what ? I can’t think of e’er a rhyme 
for dug but mug, jug, rug, hug, snug, — these 
won’t ever do. I’ll try again, and leave out 
“ dug.” 

“ ‘ When the grave is filled — no ; — when the 
grave is round — there ! ’ And he began again : 

“Where go ye, oh spirits. 

When the grave is round? 

Ye cannot leave your merits 
Within that grassy mound — 

‘‘ ‘ Oyea, that doesn’t suit, ayther. 

“Where go ye, oh, spirits? 

Oh, where can ye be found — ” 


‘‘ Suddenly a ghashly voice answered, as if 
’twas in his ear : 

“ Where-are-we-found ? 

In con-se-crated ground ! ” 

It was Larry at his tricks, but how was 
Austin to know when he’d never heard him before 
at the vin — vin — ” 

“ Ventriloquism,” said Frank. 

'' Vin-thrill-o-squeezem,” pronounced Nana, 


170 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


triumphantly. Well, Austin didn’t know one 
thing about Larry’s power, and sure he thought 
’twas ghosts. But he was a brave lad, for all 
he was so delicate, and he calls out : 

“^Who speaks?’ 

“ And Larry, keeping up his joke, answered in 
a terrible voice: 

“ Who — speaks ? 

I, — John — Hicks!” 

“ Now, John Hicks was dead and buried, and 
the words were chokey and low down, as if they’d 
come out of a grave. Austin felt himself growing 
cold, and all of a sudden he gave a fearsome cry, 
and fell over in a faint. 

“ Then was Larry sudden-sorry, and he wanted 
to run to his friend, but for the life of him he 
couldn’t stir. And he tried to call out, but sorra 
word could he say. And then he saw a teeny 
weeny little man about as high as a candlestick 
standing before him. And the bit of a man was 
dressed in green, and on his head was a green 
peaked cap. 

“ ' Hold him fast,’ ordered the fairy, for a 
real fairy it was this time. ‘ Don’t let him move.’ 

“ And then Larry knew that about twenty little 
fairymen were sitting on his shoulders. He tried 
to protest, but his voice was only a fairy-struck 
whisper, as he said: 



“‘HOLD HIM FAST, DON’T LET HIM MOVE.’” 







AN IRISH FAIRY TALE 


171 

“ ‘ I want to help Austin.’ 

“ ‘ You want to help him ? ’ says the fairy, 
scornful-like. ‘ He’ll be helped without you, imp 
o’ mischief that you are, frightening a lad that’s 
got the real poetic gift and that makes songs every 
day for the fairy folk. And you must sit here — 
here! here atop o’ the fairy fort to play your 
wicked pranks, must you? We’ll show you how 
to choose your place better next time I ’ 

‘ Ah, then, am I on a fairy fort ? ’ whispered 
poor Larry. 

“ ‘ That you are, and it’s under it you’ll be — 
Hark! That’s good! Well done. Crop and 
Mop!’ 

“ And then Larry saw the gravedigger, Mike 
Shields, coming along, and there was two fairies 
pulling at him to make him hurry; but he didn’t 
know it, for how could he see them? He wasn’t 
fairy-struck, like poor Larry. He had his spade 
over his shoulder, and was whistling away as 
merry as you like, when he saw Austin. And 
then the fairies ran off, and big Mike stooped 
down and looked at the poor lad lying there still 
as death, and every bit as white as that same. 
It wasn’t a minute’s work for the strong man to 
lift the boy to his shoulder in place o’ the spade, 
and to trudge off home with him. 

“ Larry was so glad to see Austin taken care 
of that he tried to laugh for joy, but couldn’t utter 


172 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


a sound. To add to his distress the ground began 
to open out under him, and all the Little Good 
People jumped off his back and caught hold of 
his hand and began to drag him down — down 
— down — ” 

T ing-a-tang-ling-lang-long ! 

It was the bell for our tea. N^na stood up 
and struck a match to light the gas, while 
Frank and Brose and Nellie and I pleaded in 
chorus : 

“ Oh, Nana, please finish ! ” 

But the order-loving old nurse was already put- 
ting out Nellie’s clean pinafore and a fresh collar 
for Brose. 

“ After tea,” she promised. 

So we had to leave “ Larry ” in the down-down 
state — “County Down,” Frank said — and to 
wait in ill-repressed impatience for the conclusion 
of Nana’s fairy tale. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE KELTIC JANIUS 

After tea we all gathered again around the 
nursery hearth. The firelight cast a cheerful 
glow upon our faces; the curtains were drawn, 
and the dreary tattoo of the rain beating against 
the window-panes came to our ears softened like 
a minor accompaniment to our dear nurse’s 
crooning voice. 

Where was I, children ? ” she asked. 

Down, down, down — ” 

“ Oyea. Well, then, Larry had to wink his 
eyes very fast when he found himself at last on 
the soles of his own feet within the fairy fort. 
Sure the lights would dazzle any one after the 
gray gloaming in the world above stairs. Larry 
thought he never saw so many lights, and every 
one o’ them so weeny — no bigger nor flies, and 
about as thick as flies in the middle o’ summer. 
All the thousands o’ little fairy lamps were as 
green as shamrocks, and their light made the 
place look onearthly to mortial eyes. And how 
173 


174 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


the Little Good People swarmed about Larry! 
The fairyman who had talked so harshly to him 
in the graveyard began pointing at him, and say- 
ing to the others : 

“ ^ Here’s a mortial villain ! Sure, he’s frighted 
the gentle lad that makes songs for the Little 
Good People ! Crop 1 Mop ! — do ye both go 
after the poor stricken boy and his bearer, and 
bring me the news O'f how he is. And — if he 
dies — ■' 

“ The commanding fairy said no more, but 
there was a threat in his fist as he shook it at 
Larry, while Crop and Mop scampered off to get 
tidings of Austin. 

“ Then a fattish fairy spoke. ' Ay,’ says he, 
' we were listening when the song broke off, and 
we wondered. The last we heard was an ugly 
voice saying, ‘‘ In — con-se-crat-ed — ground.” ’ 
‘ And ye didn’t go making a song o’ that ? ’ 
queried Top, the first speaker, in disdain ; ‘ why, 
’twas this spalpeen here made that up.’ 

And he kicked Larry so angry-like that the 
big boy had to laugh, for the wee creature’s kick 
was like the kick of a bird might be. 

' Uh, uh, don’t laugh,’ whispered Flop, the 
fat fairy, who, like all stout people, was inclined 
to be amiable. ‘ Sure, Top can poison his kicks 
when he likes.’ 

‘‘ Top had marched off to the other end o’ the 


THE KELTIC JANIUS 


175 


fort after his kick, so he didn’t hear ayther the 
laugh or the warning. Larry tried to answer 
the fat fairy, but he couldn’t speak at all, at all. 
So Flop, in his kindly way, jumped up on the 
boy’s shoulder, and touched his lips with a green 
twig shaped like a key. And then Larry spoke, 
and what he said was: 

Thank you, my good fairyman. And tell 
me, is Top your king? ’ 

“ ^ Not he ! ’ replied Flop. ‘ Sure, we haven’t 
any king; it’s a queen we have, and she comes 
here but once a month. There’s ever and ever 
so many fairy forts in her queendom, — sure, 
she can’t spend all her time here. But she always 
leaves some one of us in charge during her 
absence. It was Top’s turn this time, and a 
mighty contrairy month we had of it with all 
his peevishness. The queen is coming this very 
night, and his reign is nearly over, so he’s crosser 
than ever. And sure, he has some reason, for we 
were trying to have a chorus ready against the 
queen’s coming, and we were listening to the boy 
that makes songs in the graveyard, when you 
spoiled everything with your pranks. Now, why 
couldn’t you make a song for us ? Top might let 
you off easy if you do that.’ 

‘ I never made a song in my life,’ said poor 
Larry. ^ But I’ll try anything to get out o’ this.’ 

' Do try,’ urged Flop. ' I’ll go now, and 


176 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


leave you in peace. There’s one thing a fairyman 
can’t do, and that’s to make po’try. But we 
know how to treat poets, and sure, that’s some- 
thing.’ 

“ So the little friendly, fat fairyman trotted 
off to join his comrades, who were making great 
preparations for the coming o’ the queen, and 
left Larry sitting disconsolate on the floor. 

The boy looked at all the weeny green lights 
and all the weeny little men running and hopping 
and flying hither and thither. He noticed that 
every little fairyman was dressed in some shade 
o’ green, and that they were making a small moss- 
green throne at the one end o’ the room. And 
remembering Austin’s way o’ making rhyme with 
‘ jug ’ and ‘ mug ’ and ‘ snug,’ Larry began mut- 
tering to himself : 

‘‘ ‘ Green rhymes with queen. Think o’ that, 
now ! And fairy — sure, fairy rhymes with airy, 
and with dairy, and with — with Tipperary, to 
be sure, the very county Emly itself is in ! ’ 

“ And what with humming and rhyming, didn’t 
he make a song after all, and what’s more, didn’t 
he begin to sing it. For Larry had a sweet voice 
of his own, mind you ! And the fairymen, hearing 
him, all ran nearer to listen. Top forgetting to 
scold Flop for loosening the boy’s speech, so 
sudden-glad was he to hear the song, and the 
rollicking chune Larry put to it: 


THE KELTIC JANIUS 


177 


“ All attired in emerald robes, 

Robes o’ fairy green-o; 

Joyfully we dance and sing, 

Welcoming our queen-o.” 

Hurroh, hurroh! ' cried the fairymen in 
great glee. ‘ How grandly he’s worked in the 
real Irish O’s ! ’ 

“ Larry, it seems, thought these same O’s the 
weakest points o’ the verse, but he tried to look 
very wise and clever when they praised him. 

“ ‘ More, more ! ’ they cried. 

‘ And what will you pay me for more?’ 
demanded cute Larry. 

“ ‘ Anything ! ’ they shouted, eagerly. ‘ Any- 
thing on the earth or in the sea.’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ says the boy, ‘ I want my liberty, 
only my liberty ! ’ 

“ ‘ And for what d’ye want your liberty ? ’ 
asked Top, in his most peevish tones. 

“ Larry’s eyes filled with tears. ‘ I want to 
see how my dear Austin is getting on,’ says he. 

“ ^ Serves you right if he’d be dead of your 
tricks,’ grumbled the little commander. ‘ But for 
the good o’ your song, we’ll let you off on con- 
dition. Promise now that you’ll never play 
pranks on a poet again.’ 

‘‘ ‘ I promise,’ agreed Larry. 

“ ‘ Promise that you’ll not play tricks on old 
folk, or sickly folk, or on little children.’ 


178 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


‘ I promise.’ 

“ ‘ Promise that you’ll never bring mischief 
again into a graveyard or anear a fairy fort.’ 

“ * Never — never ! I promise ! ’ 

** ‘ Well, then, go on with your song, and when 
’tis done you can go home.’ 

“ Larry was overjoyed. He chuned up again 
briskly : 

“Welcome, welcome to the fort, 

Royal lady fairy; 

Though your world has many a court, 

The best is in Tip-per-ary ! ” 

‘‘ * That’s not so good,’ remarked Top, criti- 
cally. ‘ Not enough O’s in it.’ 

“ ' But for what do you want so many O’s, 
anyway ? ’ asked Larry. 

‘‘ Fat Flop good-naturedly answered him : 

“ ‘ O is our mystic letter. In the first place, 
it’s round like a fairy fort, and you can’t tell 
the beginning nor the end of it. Then, you 
see, it’s good Irish.’ 

“ ^ And it is the name o’ the queen,’ added Top, 
severely. ‘ Her Majesty is Queen O.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Oh ! ’ says Larry, in surprise, and not mean- 
ing to echo the commander. But they all smiled, 
gratified-like, as if you couldn’t say O too often 
to please them. 

“ ‘ Every one of us has an O in his name,’ 
explained the friendly Flop. ' Top, Crop, Mop, 


THE KELTIC JANIUS 


179 


Flop, Hop, and so on. Nod, Clod, Rod, Pod, 
and so on. Wog, Trog, Sog, Bog, and so on. 
Hot, Lot, Pot, Shot, Dot, Not, and so — ’ 

That’ll do! ’ interrupted Top, crossly. ‘ We 
didn’t ask you for a song. Go on with the song, 
mortial boy ! ’ 

“ Larry, cudgelling his brains for O’s, sang this 
verse : 

“Oh, there’s o-only one for us — 

One most lovely Queen-O. 

Bow, immortials, look and bow 
To the loveliest ever seen-o!” 

- ‘ What bosh ! ’ muttered Larry, under his 

breath. But the Little Good People were fairly 
wild with delight. 

“ ' Hurroh, hurroh for the song-boy ! ’ they 
cried. ‘ One more verse, only one more, and well 
let you go I ’ 

‘‘ And Larry could hardly keep from laughing 
as he sang the last verse, so silly he thought it : 

“Queen O, queen, oh. Queen O, queen, oh, 
Welcome, welcome to your court! 

Well, oh, well, oh, well, oh, well, 

Welcome to the Fairy Fort!” 

‘ Hurro-o-o-oh ! ’ cried Crop and Mop, the 
messenger fairies, who had just returned from 
the upper world. ‘ That’s a fine 0-sy song. And 
we’ve brought good news. The other song-boy is 
well again.’ 


i8o THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 

“ Then it was Larry’s turn to give a hurroh, 
but not being so fond o’ the O’s, what he said 
was a common ‘ hurrah ! ’ 

“ All of a sudden the Little Good People were 
mightily disturbed, for there was a quick flash o’ 
light at the intrance, and a very dainty fairyman 
flew down into the fort. As he shook perfume 
from his curls, he called out : 

“ ‘ Here am I, Eop, the courier o’ the queen! 
Make room ! Room for the great Queen O ! ’ 

“ The crowd o’ fairymen all scampered off to 
the throne-court and left Larry alone. So ’twas 
that he saw the fairy queen, a sight never before 
given to mortial eyes, — and not much room 
she needed for her greatness, he thought, for she 
was hardly so tall as a silver fork. Down she 
came in her litle pearl chariot drawn by six 
green grasshoppers, harnessed with gold chains. 
Larry couldn’t but say she was rare-beautiful, 
though. Her dress was like a veil o’ mist, only 
’twas the color of young leaves in April And 
her head was crowned with a crown of emeralds, 
while her eyes were like two more o’ the green 
gems, and her hair — oh! her hair was as gold 
as the harp on the flag o’ Erin. 

Larry stared at her as she whirled past him. 
She turned her cruel-bright green eyes and saw 
him, and he thought she must be angry, as he 


THE KELTIC JANIUS 


i8i 


caught her hissing words. ‘ A mortial in my 
sight ! Pre-sumption ! ’’ 

“ So what did he do but run to the gate o’ 
the fort and climb up to the world! He was 
none too soon, for the fort snapped together when 
he was barely out of it, and never, never was 
Larry able to find the entrance again to show it 
to any one. 

But he heard his own 0-sy song in chorus 
many’s the time after, when he’d put his ear to 
the ground anear a fairy fort, though no one 
else could hear a sound at all, at all. Ah, then, 
’twas certain the Little Good People had put a 
spell o’ magic on him. For never after that day 
was Larry known to tormint a living creature, 
but was all gentleness, even in his fun. 

“ Austin began to get strangely strong in the 
body as soon as he recovered from the fright 
Larry had given him in the graveyard, but ’twas 
odd that he could never make po’try any more. 
The gift went over entirely to Larry. And it was 
Austin that when he grew up got to be a dealer in 
cattle, and a rich, rich man. 

‘‘ Larry went away from Emly with a gentle- 
man who took him to the city of Limerick. When 
he was gone so long that people had nearly for- 
gotten him, sure Austin got a book from him, 
— a printed book, with every word in it made up 
by Larry. And, by the same token, the covers 


i 82 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


were green, and the pages had many an O in 
them. I saw the book myself, but the O-sy song 
o’ the Little Good People wasn’t in it. ’Twas 
all stories.” 

We gazed dreamily into the fire. 

“Was this story in Larry’s book?” asked 
Frank. 

“ No, no,” said Nana. “ This is a true story.” 

“ True for you,” said Frank, laughing. “ But, 
Nana, I think your gifted Larry began to romance 
early in life.” 

“ Early he died, too, poor lad. ’Twas said he’d 
travelled the wide world over, even as far as 
Rome and the Holy Land. But he wasn’t thirty 
when they brought him home and buried him 
in Emly churchyard, anear the fairy fort. And 
the big-wigs in Dublin said he was a Keltic janius, 
and what did they do but put a monnyment over 
him, a fine monnyment, and never one at all was 
put over Austin when he died, though he was a 
rich, rich man.” 

Nana sighed quite cheerfully as she ended her 
story thus, in true Irish style, at the very gates 
of eternity. I was eleven, but “ only a girl,” and 
my echoing sigh was dismally sentimental. But 
P'rank laughed merrily, and pointed to Brose and 
Nellie, who had fallen asleep one on each side 


THE KELTIC JANIUS 183 

of Nana, with their curls intermingled in heL 
white apron. 

The Little Good People ! ” said our family 
tease. “ There’s a ‘ monnyment ’ to Nana’s 
story ! ” 

Nana said she’d never let him into her stories 
again. But she did, again and again. The 
teaser was a coaxer, too, and I think, in her heart 
of hearts, Nana liked him better than she liked 
any of her less mischievous charges. As wise 
Brose would say, “ It’s the way of the women.” 


CHAPTER XVL 


ONE OF A THOUSAND 

Fm afraid we tormented the Student some- 
times. We thought that his chief business in 
life should be that of a teller of tales for our 
entertainment. He had other views himself, and 
I often wondered why he did not attempt to 
escape our importunities. But he was patient 
with us ; he never forgot that we were fatherless, 
motherless, lonely little children, and that our 
hunger for stories had a very real reason in our 
half-empty, unchildish childhood which we strove 
to fill with the dramas of other lives, richer in 
love than our own. 

“ You’re always going to Washington with 
Grandpapa,” I complained one day. ‘‘ And what 
do you do there? ” 

“ We don’t interview any Congressmen, I 
assure you, and we neglect the President shame- 
fully,” he answered, looking up from his book 
for a moment. 

“No, indeed; and I’m very sure Grandpapa 

184 


ONE OF A THOUSAND 


185 


never even calls on our cousin, Mrs. Campion, 
who’d be so glad to see him, or to see any of us,” 
I continued, dolefully. “ But what do you do in 
Washington ? ” 

“We devour the libraries and decimate the 
book-stalls. You see, we come home with trophies. 
This volume,” holding up a brown and yellow 
ragged book, “ this volume is a treasure captured 
by your grandfather at the sale of the Bellaire 
collection. It was printed on the first press set 
up in India, but the matter of which it is com- 
posed is some two thousand years older than the 
invention of printing.” 

“ Any stories in it ? ” 

“ There are stories in everything.” 

“ But — ” 

“ I tell you what Til do. If you’ll be very 
good, and let me study for awhile. I’ll tell you an 
East Indian story after tea to-night.” 

“ Out of that book ? ” 

“ Not exactly; this is a learned dissertation on 
the attributes of the Hindu deities. Honor 
bright. I’ve translated a real Sanskrit story for 
the special benefit of the little Storeys of the 
Story-Book House ! ” 

And here it is, as he transcribed it for us from 
the original Hindustani, its Oriental quaintness 
toned down in its passage through our Student’s 
Celtic mind. 


i86 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


THE WISEMAN OF STORIES 

Once upon a time, and a long time ago it was, 
there reigned in India a king called Dab Selim. 
You must understand that no ruler, however 
sagacious, can get along without advisers. Our 
President has his Cabinet, and when he is puzzled 
about some great national question he asks the 
advice of Secretary This or Secretary That. The 
President and his Cabinet officers know that con- 
sultation is an excellent plan for clearing away 
national cobwebs. 

Now King Dab Selim wouldn’t have a Cabinet; 
he scorned advice given as advice; he liked to 
think that he was wiser as well as more powerful 
than all the princes and peoples of the Orient. 
Arrogantly he ranked himself so far above his 
subjects that, if one of them, even the noblest 
Rajput of them all, should dare, however mildly, 
to offer advice. Dab Selim would instantly order 
his decapitation. So those who liked to keep head 
and shoulders conjoined either preserved discreet 
silence or showered fulsome praise upon the deeds 
of their haughty monarch. 

Yet was his High-and Mightiness sad. You 
see, people are not made happy by getting their 
own way in everything. Dab Selim was a mon- 
strous tyrant, but he was no fool. He could not 
help thinking after he had done some tyrannical 


ONE OF A THOUSAND 


187 


mischief, Was that wholly wise? If I had re- 
flected upon every side of the question, should I 
have been so hasty? Perhaps I should not have 
burned that village; perhaps I might have spared 
the young Rajah — perhaps! What have I 
gained by the destruction of life and property? 
What have I lost ? ’’ 

Once after thus meditating he cried aloud, 
“ Oh, that Ganesa, the god of wisdom, would 
send Narada to counsel me! ” 

For, you see, poor-rich Dab Selim was only a 
heathen, after all. He lived long before Christ 
came to redeem the world, long, long before the 
False Prophet introduced the mix-max of Islam 
to the credulous Orient. King Dab Selim believed 
in great Brahm, who sprang from the sacred 
egg O'f gold; in Indra, the rain god; in Veruna, 
the sky god; in Agni, the fire, deity; in Siva, 
the destroyer; in Vishnu, who in three steps 
could traverse the world; in Ushas, the god of 
dawn; in Vayu, the wind god; in Kubera, the 
god of wrath; in Skanda, the war god; in 
Ganesa, the god of wisdom, and Narada, his mes- 
senger, and in all the rest of the thirty-three 
Hindu deities, who were “ eleven in sky, eleven 
in mid-air, eleven upon earth.” 

When the monarch soliloquized, neither fair- 
featured chief nor swart servitor durst make 
response. 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


i88 

Yet King Dab Selim barely had uttered his 
wish when, as it were, from the ground there ap- 
peared before him a tall, gaunt figure clad in 
spotless linen. 

Obeisance to the mighty Dab Selim, Lord 
of the East, Brother of the Sun and Moon, Light 
of the World ! ” So spoke the apparition, bowing 
at the same time in the prostrate fashion of the 
Orient. 

“ Thou art — ? 

“ Thy servant is called Bidpai. Come I from 
my retreat in the forest because I was bidden by 
Narada, the sage, who said unto me, ‘ The King 
Dab Selim hath need of thee.’ ” 

He paused. Again Dab Selim fixed his imperi- 
ous eyes upon the stranger; again he said, and 
with new insistence, “ Thou art — ? ” 

“ I am thy servant. A high-caste Brahman am 
I, twice born — instructed a hundredfold. I have 
been priest and philosopher, poet and historian. 
The language of bird, of beast, of insect, of little 
brook and mighty river, of the grass flower and 
the mountain tree, of the winds and the rocks — 
lo. King! all this varied speech can I translate. 
Yet am I content with my dinner of herbs in my 
little hut among the trees at the edge of the sand- 
wastes. I have given thee the message given unto 
me by Narada — the messenger of wisdom. Hast 


ONE OF A THOUSAND 189 

thou need of thy servant or hath the deity played 
me false? ” 

Wonderingly Dab Selim scrutinized the scho- 
lastic of the wilderness — eagerly he drank in 
his testimony. We are wiser than the ancient 
potentate, of course, for we know very well that 
Bidpai was but playing a game of diplomacy with 
his king. Yet there is good-natured diplomacy as 
well as mischievous, and the wiles of the Brahman 
philosopher were of good intent. Bidpai had 
heard many and grievous complaints of the king. 
Dab Selim was a tyrant, an oppressor, a violator 
of rights, for all that he believed himself divine. 
Should some one venture to say to him, Great 
King, if you would deign to do thus and so, what 
happiness you might confer on your people ! ” 
perhaps the monarch might see himself in all his 
odiousness, but more likely he would order the 
instant execution of the daring adviser. Bidpai 
the Wiseman had so affectionate a regard for his 
own head that he did not care to lose it for a 
tyrant’s whim. Hence his plan. 

Did he understand the language of all things 
animate and inanimate? Most certainly. All 
poets are gifted thus. And had Narada, the sage 
divinity, commanded Bidpai to wait upon the 
king? Ah, that I do not care to affirm! The 
suggestion was an inspiration, certainly, and 
doubtless a high-caste Brahman of the ancient 


190 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


cult believed that every wise inspiration was a 
direct communication from Narada, the deified 
messenger of wisdom. Even yet Brahmanism 
is of all pagan systems the most poetic, the most 
spiritual. In those early days it was a sort of 
refined nature worship, free from the repulsive 
cruelties which were to be formulated by its 
more modern devotees. 

Bidpai the Wiseman was a fine type of the 
high-caste Brahman of the ancient times. His 
forehead was lofty and of good breadth, his deep- 
set black eyes were amazingly soft, and bright 
as the eyes of a happy child. You are not to 
suppose that he was at all like the yellow-skinned, 
low-caste Hindus whom you may have seen per- 
forming jugglery on the stage. No; Bidpai’s 
skin was like ivory; it was as white as his even, 
shining teeth. 

Nor was the “ twice-born ” king darker than 
his visitor. Dab Selim had the peculiarly white 
complexion, the regular features, and deep dark 
eyes of the noble Aryan race. But his lips were 
thin with merciless purpose, his brow furrowed 
by haunting afterthought, his eyes hardened in 
wilful selfishness and solitary discontent. The 
great king bestowed an approving glance upon 
Bidpai’s simple dress. His own costume was 
heavy with bullion, encrusted with gems. The 
royal robes were, in sooth, a woful weight to 


ONE OF A THOUSAND 


191 


bear. Wearily the king lifted his arms, and his 
massive gold bracelets clanked against the gold 
of the throne pillars. Great diamonds and rubies 
flashed on Dab Selim’s slender fingers; scaly 
golden serpents with ruby eyes were twisted about 
his bare ankles. 

The monarch’s scrutiny was favorable to 
Bidpai. Dab Selim saluted the philosopher 
reverently. 

“ Be seated, messenger of the messenger of 
wisdom,” he said. “ I am sad at heart, and if 
thou canst comfort me, truly I have need of thee, 
O man of wise words.” 

“ What doth the king need ? ” asked Bidpai. 
“Wealth? Nay, his very fingers are afire 
with precious substance. Power? He holds a 
nation in the hollow of his hand. Love ? His 
mother lives, his wife is fair, his babes are comely. 
Wealth, power, love — ” 

Lowly the great king spoke. “ I am master 
of all these, yea, master even of mother and of 
wife. Bidpai, I have heard of friendship — 
of friendship between man and man, strong 
enough to bind weakness, potent to amend error, 
fruitful in counsel, loyal, tender, enduring unto 
death. Tell me — wise Brahman, is there so veri- 
table a treasure to be found in all India? ” 

“ May the king have a friend ? ” counter- 
queried the Wiseman, cunningly. “ Nay, for 


192 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


unless the king should stoop to meet friendship, 
who would dare to raise himself to the level of the 
Brother of the Sun? For friendship is equality. 
Yea, there is friendship among the lowly, even 
among the beasts. Wouldst thou have a story, 
my king? ” 

“ Canst thou find a new tale for every day? ” 
asked Dab Selim, eagerly. 

“ For every hour of every day. My fellow 
creatures, my birds, my flowers, have told their 
secrets to me; the pebble on the river-bank and 
the grain of millet in the sower’s hand have 
poured their stories into my ears. So if the king 
will deign to listen I can tell him a thousand 
thousand tales.” 

“ Tell me a tale of friendship,” said the friend- 
less king. 

So Bidpai told the first of his thousand 
thousand tales, “ The Story of the Three 
Friends,” and, in telling it, gained the first friend- 
ship of the one-time tyrant of India. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE THREE FRIENDS 

In the land of Sakawind, near the city of 
Dahir, there was a luxuriant forest abounding 
in all kinds of wild game. Hither the hunters 
resorted to try their skill that they might bear 
home trophies and provisions. 

In a many-branched, closely leaved teakwood- 
tree in the wildwood a Raven had made its home. 
It happened one morning that the fierce Thug, a 
cruel hunter, made his way to the foot of the 
Raven’s tree. He bore a long staff and a many- 
corded net. The Raven trembled. “ Alas ! this 
murderer comes to destroy me or some of my 
neighbors,” said the bird to himself. “ I must 
remain as quiet as possible, so that he may not 
observe me.” 

Thug, who had not seen the bird of ebon 
plumage on its lofty perch, stretched his net on 
the ground and sprinkled grains of millet and 
rice between the meshes. Then he hid himself in 
the shrubbery and waited for victims. 

193 


194 the story-book HOUSE 

Presently the Ring-Dove and her companions 
soared near. 

“We are hungry. Where shall we get our 
breakfast?” asked the Gray Dove. 

“ Wait,” said the Ring-Dove. 

“ Why, there’s a fine breakfast spread for us ! ” 
cried the Brown Dove. “ What luck ! ” 

“ Come, come, let us eat,” cooed one of the 
White Doves. 

“ Beware of the too-easy ! ” warned the Ring- 
Dove. “ Nothing worth having can be had with- 
out labor. Rice and millet do not grow in the 
jungle. Beware! Beware!” 

But the Striped Dove and the Speckled Dove 
and all their companions cooed merrily, “ Oh, 
sermonizer, shall we not take what the dawn-god 
hath provided? Refuse the good gift if thou 
wilt, but keep not us. from our breakfast ! ” 

So- they flew down and began to devour the 
grain. The Ring-Dove suspected a snare, though 
she could see nothing, for the net was woven of 
hemp as green as the jungle grass. Her doubts 
took away her appetite; still, not wishing to 
desert her companions, she flew down beside them. 

Then the fierce huntsman was glad. Long had 
he desired to possess the Ring-Dove, and now 
he had her and a whole flock of her companions. 
He pulled a cord, and instantly all the feeding 


THE THREE FRIENDS 


195 

birds were gathered, ignominiously bagged into 
the close net. 

A good morning’s work ! ” cried the hunter, 
gleefully, as he tied the cord. Then, like the cruel 
ruffian that he was, he sat down under a tree to 
enjoy the distress of the captives. 

How they struggle ! ” he cried. ‘‘ How 
frightened they are! They have good reason, 
too. I shall have the heads of most of them 
wrung off before night. What fun ! ” 

They understood very well what he said, but 
he knew nothing of their language. The Ring- 
Dove excepted, all the victims bewailed their 
situation. 

Oh, if we had but taken your advice! ” they 
moaned. ‘‘ Ah, that we had recollected that 
the Ring-Dove’s counsel has ever been wise! ” 

Recollect it now, then,” said the Ring- 
Dove. “ I do not reproach you ; your punishment 
is reproach enough. We are in trouble; yes, but 
no one ever got out of difficulty by grumbling 
about it. Now, friends, stop your useless moan- 
ing and let us consider what we must do to be 
free.” 

'' Freedom ! freedom ! ” cried the others, and 
they all began to struggle again, this way and 
that, each striving to free himself. They only 
flopped the net from side to side, and made the 
cruel Thug laugh at their fruitless efforts. 


196 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ Cease that useless, disunited struggle and list 
to me ! ” commanded the Ring-Dove, so sternly 
that the fluttered captives subsided at once. “We 
are friends, are we not? If we are, we should 
work for one another, not each for himself. Self- 
ishness always defeats its own object. Work 
together, friends, each for all, all for each, with 
one united purpose and one undivided strength. 
Now, all together! Upward! Mount!” 

Before the astonished hunter could spring to 
his feet he saw the net soar into the air like 
one great bird. 

“What? this is no less than magic!” he 
exclaimed. “ Have all the birds been trans- 
formed into one of giant strength? Am I to 
be so cheated of my prey? No, no!” 

So Thug rose and ran along under the slowly 
flying net. The Raven, who was much inter- 
ested, flew after the doves and overheard what 
they had to say. 

“ The hunter follows us,” remarked the Ring- 
Dove. “ Let us return to the forest and elude 
his pursuit.” 

They flew in among the trees, and Thug soon 
lost sight of them. Not so the Raven, who, 
unseen by the worried huntsman, followed the 
netted birds from tree to tree. When they were 
safe from their pursuer, the Ring-Dove gave the 


THE THREE FRIENDS 


197 

signal, and the wearied birds sank to the ground 
to rest. 

Now we are in just as sad a plight as ever,” 
complained the Speckled Dove. “ WeVe escaped 
the hunter, but we are still imprisoned.” 

“ Have you a friend? ” queried the Ring-Dove, 
shortly — “ one that can help us to be free? ” 

“ N-no, not exactly that,” said the Speckled 
Dove. And then more boastingly, “ Of course 
I have plenty of friends perfectly willing to help 
me if they could. But how can I ask Madam 
Heron or Sir Kingfisl^er to extricate a dozen 
foolish doves from the net of Thug?” 

“ A real friend likes to be asked to do a good 
turn for his friend,” declared the Ring-Dove. 
‘‘ And a real friend is able to help because he 
is willing. Have you such a friend? ” addressing 
the Brown Dove, who meekly confessed that she 
wished she could say she had. Some of the 
others, like the Speckled Dove, boasted of their 
elegant acquaintances. But the Ring-Dove’s test 
of helpfulness seemed to leave them all friendless. 
This angered the Gray Dove. 

“ You appear to blame us for having no power- 
ful friends. Where are your own? Will Man 
help you, or Lion or Cheetah or Jackal or 
Hyena ? ” 

“Or Elephant or Peacock?” added Speckled 
Dove, sarcastically. 


198 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


I have no friendship with the enemies of 
my race nor with selfish, flaunting birds,” said 
Ring-Dove, quietly. Yet have I friends, O 
doubting Doves! Yea, there is a great brown 
Elephant who is my friend when I need his 
service. I have a Man friend, too. And in a 
certain burrow is a very good friend of mine who 
will help me now — a little brown Field Mouse.” 

At this the others laughed. “ That’s a famous 
kind of friend to have! ” sneered Speckled Dove. 

I foresee that we shall remain in this net to 
starve until a jungle beast comes to make a 
meal of us.” 

Your foresight is short sight,” retorted 
Ring-Dove. “ Now all who are willing to be 
freed make another effort. Upward ! Mount ! ” 

Again the netted cage of doves soared high; 
again the Raven followed. Far from the road, 
in the corner of the parched field, the net was 
lowered. 

“Mousie! Mousie!” called the Ring-Dove, 
softly. 

From the very cellar of a burrowed hole issued 
a thin little voice: 

Who wants me? ” 

“ A friend in distress,” replied Ring-Dove. 

That summons me,” said Field Mouse, and 
in an instant his bright little eyes and sharp nose 
were visible at the door of the burrow. 


THE THREE FRIENDS 


199 


“ Why, my dear friend Ring-Dove, is it you 
thus ensnared? Ah, let me cut the cords that 
bind you, for I suffer until you are free.” 

So saying, the faithful little friend would have 
gnawed the net which bound Ring-Dove’s feet 
had not that noble bird interposed. 

Not so. Field Mouse. I pray you, as you 
love me, help my companions first.” 

And why? ” 

Because a Man or a Tiger might pass this 
way and interrupt your work. Or if you freed 
me first you might grow weary before you had 
liberated my companions. I know you will never 
weary so long as I, your friend, remain in the net. 
Therefore, leave me until the last.” 

Noble Ring-Dove! who could help loving 
thee! ” cried Field Mouse, as he set to work dili- 
gently to sever the cords with his sharp little 
teeth-saw. 

All the doves, even to selfish, grumbling 
Speckled Dove, pleaded with Ring-Dove to be 
allowed to remain until last, but their leader was 
firm. 

And the Doves one and another said: 

“ Thank you, good Field Mouse, for freeing 
us ! Thank you, dearest Ring-Dove, for all your 
wise kindness! We shall never cease to love you 
for it; may we prove our love by trying to be 
like you in pure unselfishness ! ” 


200 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


So they all flew away except Ring-Dove, who 
remained to chat with her old friend. Suddenly 
the observant Raven swooped down, and Field 
Mouse turned to flee down its narrow burrow. 

“ Nay do not go,” pleaded the Raven. “ Fear 
me not. See, I will retreat to the hedge. I wish 
to be admitted to your noble friendship, wise 
Ring-Dove, loyal Mouse. It was near my own 
teakwood-tree that cruel Thug spread his net. 
Lo, I saw the capture and the escape, and followed 
to see the liberation. I am rejoiced to know the 
value of real friendship. Will you have me for 
your friend ? ” 

Field Mouse, who had retreated to his burrow, 
poked his cautious nose out just a little way and 
said, “ Raven, you are my natural enemy. Your 
kind devour my kind. Would not such ffiendship 
be unnatural ? ” 

“ Nay, if I find my enemy noble, he is no 
longer my enemy,” declared Raven. ‘‘ What you 
have done for Ring-Dove endears you to me. I 
swear to protect you always, to harm you never. 
Ring-Dove, do you believe me to be sincere? ” 

“ I have heard that you are a noble Raven,” 
said Ring-Dove. Do not fear him, friend 
Mouse. As to admitting him to friendship, that 
you must decide for yourself. I am slow to make 
friends, and you — ” 

She paused in horror. Field Mouse had just 


THE THREE FRIENDS 


201 


left the hole when a snake glided toward him. 
Ring-Dove and Raven were safe on the hedge, 
and Raven uttered a warning note. Both birds 
expected to see Field Mouse retreating to his 
burrow. But he stood stock-still. The snake’s 
glance was fastened on him; its sinuous body 
writhed nearer and nearer. 

“ Alas ! poor Mousie is held by the snake- 
charm ! ” cried Ring-Dove. 

Instantly, and yet with a thought as precipitate. 
Raven flew to the neck of the snake. You might 
think that snakes are all neck. I assure you that 
such is not the case. Raven knew very well 
what he was about. He placed himself so that 
neither the poisonous head could dart venom 
upon him nor the strangling body suffocate him 
in its folds. The upper neck is a small part of 
the snake; it is, however, the only “ safe ” part. 

Still, Raven was in a dangerous situation. The 
whip-like tail could twist around, strike him off, 
and then coil him in deadly embrace. He knew 
he had to measure his movements — he watched 
Mousie anxiously. The irritated serpent lifted 
its head — its mortally fascinating eyes left 
Field Mouse, who, relieved of the charm, scam- 
pered swiftly to the safety of his burrow. 

Raven promptly lifted himself into the air, 
croaking derisively as he went. Ring-Dove 


202 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


joined him in his flight, and they alighted on 
a near-by tamarisk. 

“Friend of my friend, be my friend!” said 
Ring-Dove, softly. 

“ Most heartily will I ! ” agreed Raven. “ Long 
live the Three Friends; may their affection be- 
come a proverb of true friendship! ” 

“ Friendship — it is the greatest safeguard in 
life! ” said Ring-Dove. “ Now, if Field Mouse 
had not been my friend, I should not be free 
to-day. If you had not so nobly interposed your 
friendship in behalf of Mousie, he must have 
been swallowed by that hideous krait.” 

“ And if we had not known your nobility of 
nature, dear Ring-Dove, neither of us could have 
been prompted to do what we did. Your unself- 
ishness, your wisdom — ” 

Shy Ring-Dove was confused with all this 
praise. She interrupted, suddenly: 

“ Look, look ! what is that ? ” 

A Tiger ! A long, sleek, hungry fellow. Like 
a great cat he stole noiselessly up behind the 
krait-snake, who, quivering with defeated greed, 
blind with the anger of deprivation, did not 
perceive the approaching enemy. 

What Raven knew of the snake’s weak point. 
Tiger knew also. In an instant he had fastened 
his fangs in the unprotected neck. The snake 
struggled vainly all along its length and vainly 



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THE THREE FRIENDS 


203 


tried to twist its head and dart its poison upon 
the foe. But Tiger had the advantage; the con- 
test was brief and deadly. Within a few minutes 
the serpent lay lifeless, and the hungry tiger 
began to devour the body. 

“ That is a dreadful sight ! ” said Ring-Dove, 
shuddering. 

“Wait; you will see something more. That 
great foolish cat does not know that a krait-snake 
is death-in-death as well as death-in-life. Ah, 
my friend, enmity is a fearful thing ! Even 
death does not stop the work of a foe. Look ! ” 
cried the Raven. 

Tiger threw himself on the ground and rolled 
convulsively, while he uttered howls of agony. 

“ He has slain his enemy and the death is his 
own; he has eaten the poison of hatred,” con- 
tinued Raven. 

When the great velvety body of Tiger was 
stretched in death beside the remains of his mortal 
foe, big black Raven and little pearly Ring-Dove 
left their perch and flew down to the abode of 
tiny Field Mouse. 

“ All is safe, Mousie ! ” called Ring-Dove. 
“ Come out and thank your new friend.” 

“ I hope to thank him in service rather than in 
words, else shall I be no true friend,” said Field 
Mouse. “ Ah, what work is this ? Did Snake 
kill Tiger or Tiger slay Snake? ” 


204 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Hate killed both,” replied Ring-Dove. “ May 
hatred never come to us, dear friends ! ” 

“ It shall never come among us,” declared 
Raven. “ Outside hatred cannot harm us while 
loving unity protects us. No other strength, no 
other wisdom, is so strong and so wise as faith- 
ful friendship.” 

And the Three Friends were faithful unto 
death. 

That is but one of the thousand thousand 
tales told, by Bidpai the Wiseman to Dab Selim 
the King,” concluded the Student. 

“Too much moral to it,” criticized Frank. 

“ Why, I haven’t translated one-half of its 
maxims,” said the Student. “ The Orientals like 
that sort of thing. Their professional story-tellers 
put all manner of philosophy into their tales.” 

“ Did the story make the king gooder ? ” de- 
manded Brose. 

“To be sure! You see” (addressing Frank) 
“ Brose is like an East Indian ; he wants the 
application of the story. Yes, indeed. Master 
Brose, the story-teller made the king ‘ gooder.’ 
He had so many stories to tell, and the monarch 
was so anxious to hear them all, that the Wise- 
man had to live in the palace, so that Dab Selim 
could summon him at any hour, day or night. 
Thus it came to pass that Bidpai the Wiseman 


THE THREE FRIENDS 


205 


left his lonely hermitage and took up his abode 
with the capricious tyrant. Every day he told 
new tales to Dab Selim, and day by day the 
king honored him more. Now you will have 
guessed that clever Bidpai was not one to lose 
an opportunity of doing good. No; there was 
in each new story some wise counsel for King 
Dab Selim. The tyrant, listening eagerly to the 
tale-teller, swallowed the advice with the story 
and unconsciously profited thereby. Gradually his 
manner changed; he began to treat his mother 
and his wife as equals and to show some degree 
of human feeling for his amazed subjects. 

“To Bidpai he offered wealth and honors, 
which the philosopher gently refused. 

“ ‘ What shall I give you, then, most unworldly 
Wiseman ? ’ asked King Dab Selim. 

“ ^ The king has honored me with his friend- 
ship. That is my all-sufficient recompense,’ re- 
plied Bidpai. But he had a greater reward. 
Whenever the Wiseman walked abroad the people 
taught their children to bow before their friend. 

' He hath softened the hard heart of the king; 
we need no longer live in fear. Thrice honored 
be Bidpai the Wise ! ’ ” 


I 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 

In the Story-Book House the schoolroom opens 
from the nursery. Both are large, lofty rooms, 
with tall windows, wide window-seats and ca- 
pacious hearths. The Story-Book House is built 
on a generous scale, like an English manor, and, 
indeed, the Storeys, from generation to genera- 
tion, have preserved many of the ancestral customs 
from over the sea. We were not reared in Ameri- 
can fashion ; by Grandpapa’s orders we were kept 
simply dressed, our food was plain and whole- 
some, and we were never permitted to have our 
meals in the great oak-walled dining-room, in 
which Washington, Jefferson, Lafayette, and Car- 
roll of Carrollton had dined with Great-Great- 
Grandpapa Storey, and where Grandpapa so often 
sat at the head of the table in solemn, solitary 
state. 

The schoolroom was bright and cheerful, fitted 
up with modern maps, walnut bookcases, and 
the light bamboo book-shelves which papa had 
206 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


207 


brought from Japan. The study-table was the 
only antique in the room, a mahogany monster, 
dating from Colonial times, its massive edges and 
ponderous legs cut and scratched by penknives in 
the mischievous fingers of many a dead-and-gone 
boy of the Story-Book House; its cover renewed 
every ten years or so when islands of black ink 
had almost hidden the original sea of bright 
green baize. We liked our schoolroom, but we 
loved the old nursery, with its comfortable chairs 
and its big downy sofa, and the round table where 
our simple meals were served by Nana. Nana’s' 
room adjoined the nursery, and my old room was 
next to hers. Frank and Brose slept at the other 
side of the house, in a room just above Grand- 
papa’s, — papa’s own bedroom during his boy- 
hood. 

One afternoon in early May, just when our 
lessons for the day were ended, and when we 
were all eager to get out to see the fresh grass 
and the blossoming trees, and to hear the twitter- 
ing of the song-birds, the sky grew overcast, and 
presently the clouds sent down the patter of steady 
rain, so discouraging to our hopes of a speedy 
clearing-up. Brose, with his little nose flattened 
against the window, pronounced the weather 
“ socking wet.” Nellie began to cry. 

Me ’ont yike a wain ! ” moaned our baby. 


2o8 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ Don’t blame you, Babe,” said Frank, patting 
her little dimpled hands, “ I’m tired of it myself.” 

“ I don’t get tired o’ the rain twull God gets 
tired of sending it,” announced Master Brose, 
grandly. 

No ? Isn’t our Ambrose a nice little boy ? ” 
Frank is always sarcastic when he’s cross. 

I was glad when the door of the corridor 
opened and Nana came in. Babe flew to her at. 
once. Brose pushed her old chair in place, next 
to his own. A fire burned in the wide grate, 
for there was still a chill in the air. What a cosy 
little semicircle we formed around the old brass 
fender! And how well Nana knew what we 
wanted I 

“ It’s a rainy day, children,” she said. 

“Oh, yes, Nana!” we cried. “It’s just a 
bee-yutiful day for a story.” 

“ A ghostus ’tory,” said Brose. 

From her capacious “ Irish pocket,” Nana drew 
forth a ball of scarlet yarn and began to knit. 
This was a sure sign that a story was coming, 
so we settled ourselves comfy to listen. 

“ Once upon a time,” began Nana, “ there was 
a fine young gentleman in the old country, and he 
loved a beautiful young lady. His name was 
Lord Gerald, and her name was Lady Grace. She 
lived over the water in England, and she was as 
fair as he was handsome, and they were both 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


209 


as good as gold. He had a grand estate with a 
big, big park round about it, and a lovely garden, 
and lots and lots of marble statuary. Everywhere 
you’d go you’d see Adams and Eves, and Daniel 
O’Connells, and Vanuses, and Shakespeares, and 
Juke of Wellingtons, and all kinds of janiuses.” 
Nana paused, quite out of breath with her cata- 
logue of “ Vanuses ” and “ janiuses,” and talky 
Brose improved the chance to ask: 

“ But what was the man’s last name, Nana? ” 

“ Oh, sure, he wasn’t a man at all, dear ; ’tis 
a gentleman he was, and his full name was Lord 
Gerald Tracy Fitzgerald — a good old name and 
a true one. Well, anyway, in his grandfather’s 
time, the estate run down. ’Twasn’t in the old 
man to keep a tight hold of his money, and so 
he got as poor as a church mouse, however poor 
that is. 

“ The old lord had two sons ; the one that 
became Lord Gerald’s father was what they call 
a younger son, and however little there was for 
his brother in the place, sure, there’d be less for 
him. So what did he do but go off to America 
as plain Mr. Fitzgerald. Plain in name only, 
you know, for he had all the good looks of the 
Fitzgeralds, and all the breeding of an Irish 
gentleman, with a merry tongue of his own. It’s 
no wonder the nicest and richest young lady in 
New York fell in love with him, but what was 


210 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


worse, didn’t his own blue eyes just adore her 
brown ones, and didn’t he think the American 
lady the most beautiful young lady in the world ? 

“ Ah, but he was that proud, that just because 
he had no money, he wouldn’t think of asking her 
what she was fairly dying to have him ask ! And 
what did he do but leave New York, and go out 
West somewhere, and make a fortune? Not 
much of a fortune was it compared to hers, but, 
sure, ’twas enough to make him feel like the 
gentleman that he was. And he went back to 
her, and she just pining away for the sight of 
him; and he asked her to marry him. 

“ You may be sure they had the finest wedding 
ever seen in New York. However, hardly had 
they got home from the church when a message 
was handed to him that had been going astray 
for ever and ever so long. And when he read it 
he knew his brother was dead three months back, 
and now himself was the heir to the lordship and 
the lands, and had to go home to Ireland to his 
father. Then he told his bride and her father 
that he was the future Lord Fitzgerald. And 
sure, if they were proud of him before, it’s 
prouder they were then. 

“ Well, to make a long story short, they sailed 
away to Ireland, and it’s a grand welcome they 
got; and the old lord, who was very poetical, 
said his son’s wife was an American lily — for 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


2II 


Lilian was her name — and he called her Lily- 
flower. And it’s proud and happy he was when 
he held in his arms his little grandson, Gerald, 
named for himself. Ah, then, it’s the happy home 
that was there! The sweet American Lily was 
that soothered with joy — how could she know 
that ’twas to be so short-lived ? Many and many 
a fair bride had the Fitzgerald heirs in the years 
agone, and happy, happy were the sweet creatures, 
— but — but nearly every one of them died 
young. It looked as if death, being jealous-like 
of so much happiness, followed them that married 
the Fitzgeralds.” 

Here Master Brose interrupted the story. In- 
deed we were wondering why he had been so 
long silent. 

Nana,” he said, gravely, I won’t marry no 
Fitzgerald.” 

That’s right, darling,” said Nana, joining in 
the laugh raised at the expense of this very young 
bachelor. Well, anyhow, to be on with my 
story, all the joy was soon enough turned to 
wailing. The beautiful American Lily faded 
and died, and her young husband was like one 
distracted. And, sure, less than six months after 
she was laid away, didn’t his crushed and faithful 
heart follow her, leaving the old lord alone in 
the world with an orphan baby. 

Ah ! but the love he poured over that boy 


212 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


as the years went on, and the old gentleman that 
had never taken care of money became almost 
a miser for the grandson’s sake. He managed 
his estate himself, and got the rents all in proper, 
and put a stop to all waste, so that when he died 
the place was in grand trim, and he had left a 
little money to the boy — besides the fine Ameri- 
can fortune the parents left. 

Ah, but things can’t happen in a minute, and 
it took eighteen years for the old lord to do all 
this, and it’s nineteen years old was the lad when 
the grandfather died. Eh, to be sure, he must 
have grieved sore for the kind old lord that had 
been like father and mother to him. 

“ But, after all, sure, youth is young, and six 
years after, don’t we find Lord Gerald Fitzgerald, 
at the age of twenty-five, madly in love with the 
Lady Grace.” 

“ We do, we do,” said Frank, and it’s nearly 
six years since you spoke of Lady Grace, Nana.” 

Nana smiled and shook her head. I’m afraid 
I’m but a roundabout story-teller,” she said, “ but 
whatever way it comes into my head, that’s the 
way I must tell it.” 

The continued rain darkened the already fading 
day. Nana could no longer see to set her stitches 
properly, so she put away the knitting. Baby Nell 
had fallen asleep with her golden head resting 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


213 

against my knee. Nana placed her on the sofa, 
and covered her with a shawl. 

Meanwhile Frank was stirring up the fire, and 
its glow shone upon our faces. 

“ Fm glad it isn’t a really ghostus ’tory,” said 
Brose, looking behind him ; it’s too dark over 
there.” 

Ah, but ’tis a ghost story,” Nana assured 
him, as she resumed her place. “ Sure, I didn’t 
come to that part yet.” 

“ Go on, Nana,” said I, “ Brose asked for a 
ghost story.” 

** ’Twas daylight then,” whimpered Brose. 
‘‘ I’m not afraid for myself, but Babe is over there 
in the dark alone.” 

“ Shall I put you with her for company ? ” said 
Frank, rising; but Brose shrank away, crying, 

Oh, Frank, I’m a-scared my own self, too ! ” 

This admission pleased Frank so much that he 
placed Brose’s chair between his own and mine, 
so that the little fellow might feel safe. 

‘‘ Well, to come back to Lord Gerald,” re- 
sumed Nana, he was as wild for the lovely 
Lady Grace as his father had been for the fair 
American Lily, — and he being so noble and 
rich and handsome, how could her people, grand 
though they were, say no to him? 

“ So they were married, and he brought her 
home to Ireland, a wife of eighteen. Ah, but 


214 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


she was a beauty ! When they came up the road 
to Mount Tracy, sure, the people lined the hedges 
to get a look at them, and to wish long life to 

them, for Lord Gerald was beloved by all his 
tenants, he being the best landlord in all Ireland. 
Ah, but when they saw his bride, with her lovely 
waving hair as yellow as the sunlight, and her 
skin as white as milk, with just a posy blush 
coming over it when they cheered, and her kind 
eyes beaming, sure^ the country people shouted 
themselves hoarse, and no wonder, for she looked 
like an angel. 

“ They were as happy as the angels, those two, 
and them that used to praise Lord Gerald before, 
lost sight of him when they began to speak of her 
ladyship. There wasn’t a sick or a poor person 
for miles around that she didn’t comfort. Ah, 

then, she was so full of her own happiness that 
she didn’t want any one to have sorrow. But 
who can ward off sorrow from themselves? 

They’d been married nearly three months, 
when one day Lord Gerald was called away on 
business. He left on an early morning train, so 
that he could get back before night. But toward 
evening a storm rose, and the rain poured and the 
wind howled. ’Twas then Lady Grace began to 
get oneasy. My own second cousin, Alice 
Moloney, was her ladyship’s maid, and ’twas 
from her I got the story. 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


215 


’Twas nigh eight o’clock in the evening. 
The wind-storm was down, but the rain still 
poured in torrents. The groom had gone early 
to the station with the master’s horse, and Alice 
said they were only waiting for the rain to stop, 
but that didn’t quiet Lady Grace, and she kept on 
fretting till she had a headache. Alice offered 
to brush her hair, thinking ’twould ease the pain. 
She was a great comfort, was Alice. 

“ Lady Grace lay back in the dressing-chair 
while the girl onpinned the yellow braids and 
let loose the silky-fine hair. They were anear 
the window, so that her ladyship could hear the 
trampling of hoofs which would speak Lord 
Gerald’s return. 

Alice brushed away with firm and gentle 
strokes, but her mistress grew oneasier and on- 
easier. ‘Thank you, Alice; it’s very soothing. 
But I’m nervous — so nervous ! I have some 
sense of coming danger : I feel that there is 
something wrong — Hark ! what is that ? ’ 

“ For above all the noise of pouring rain rose 
the saddest, most onearthly wail, beginning low 
and rising to a shriek, then falling again into a 
long-drawn moan. 

“ Alice turned white as a sheet, and the brush 
fell from her trembling fingers. Ah, then, well 
she knew the meaning of that awful sound. It 


2i6 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


was the wail of the banshee that always came to 
foretell death. 

“ ‘ What is it? ' cried Lady Grace. ‘ Speak, 
girl: Em nearly frantic! ’ 

“ ‘ Ah,’ said Alice, stooping to pick up the 
brush, and trying to speak quiet-like, ‘ sure, it’s 
only a gust of wind blowing through the trees, 
my lady.’ 

As if to contradict her, the wailing sound rose 
again, and again died away in a moan. 

“ ‘ It is a human voice ! ’ cried Lady Grace, 
starting up. ‘ Alice, I must see who is in distress 
this night ! ’ 

Alice laid hands on her. ‘ Ah, then, my lady, 
it’s Winnie, the kitchen-maid, that’s lost her 
mother, and she do be grieving for — ’ 

“ Here the onearthly wail rose again, this time 
seeming to come from just outside the casement. 
Lady Grace broke away from her maid’s clasp, 
and rushed to the window. Alice followed her. 

“ Then they saw a tall figure, all in white, 
with long hair streaming in the rain, and with 
its thin arms lifted up and waving, while the 
terrible moaning sound came from its lips. 
Hardly had the echo died away when the ghostly 
figure vanished. 

“ Alice was nearly palsied with terror. Lady 
Grace caught her by the arm. ‘ Who was that 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


217 

woman, and where did she go ? ’ demanded the 
mistress. 

Then Alice faltered out, ‘ Oh, my lady, my 
lady, ’twas the banshee — the banshee of the 
Fitzgeralds, and death will come to this house 
the night ! ' 

“ Ah, then, if Lady Grace was nervous before, 
sure, she got as calm and strong as could be when 
she heard what the maid had to say. 

“ ‘ Fve heard of that superstition before,' she 
said, ‘ I know what you mean. Lord Gerald is 
away from home. I will show that it’s all non- 
sense. Come now, fasten up my hair, and let us 
go to meet Lord Gerald.’ 

‘ Sure, there isn’t a man to drive the carriage ; 
Ulick went to the village, and Barney’s gone to 
meet my lord, — onless your ladyship’d trust 
the carriage-horses to Thady the gardener, or 
to one o’ the stable-boys ? ’ 

“ ‘ No; the horses are too spirited to be driven 
by unskilled hands. And Beauty, my own saddle- 
horse, is lame since yesterday. Well, Alice, — 
we can walk ! ’ 

‘‘ ‘ Walk? Walk in all the rain, is it? ’ asked 
the astonished Alice. 

^ Pshaw ! it is nothing — nothing to this 
terrible suspense, girl. Oh, make haste!’ 

In a few minutes Alice had wrapped her 
ladyship in a rain-coat, its little hood fastened 


2i8 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


over her head. She put an old waterproof cloak 
on herself. Taking a lantern, they started out, 
and without telling any one, or saying a word to 
each other, they walked as fast as they could 
along the wet road. At last they came to Mona’s 
Cross, where the road forks off in two. 

“ ‘ Now, then, which way shall we go, my 
lady?’ asked Alice. ‘It’s like this: If my 
lord passed through the village, he’d come by 
the left-hand way, and if he came straight from 
the station, he’d take the right-hand road.’ 

“ Lady Grace paused to think. It was the 
queerest night. Only half an hour before it had 
been pouring rain, but now the clouds had all 
cleared away and the moon was shining. 

“ ‘ Alice,’ said her ladyship, ‘ it’s more than 
likely that Lord Gerald will come direct from the 
station; but for fear he’d come the other way, 
do you take this road, and I’ll go by that, and 
one of us will be sure to meet him.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, my lady, won’t you be afraid to go by 
yourself ? ’ 

“ Alice never forgot how this tenderly reared 
young lady of eighteen looked down the long 
road. The moon shone full on her face and 
showed her crinkly yellow hair coming out of 
the hood, but it showed never a sign of fear in 
her brave eyes. 

“ ‘ I am not afraid, Alice,’ she said, and turn- 







“SHE CRIED OUT TO THEM TO HALT 




AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


219 


ing, she walked swiftly down the road to the 
station, leaving the maid to go the other way. 

“ Alice had been about twenty minutes on the 
road, running for very fear, for the wail of the 
banshee was still in her ears, when suddenly 
she heard the sound of ringing hoofs, and 
a couple of horsemen clattered up. She cried 
out to them to halt, and who were they but Lord 
Gerald and Barney the groom. 

“ ‘ Ah, then, is it Alice ? ’ cried Barney. ‘ And 
what brings you out ? ’ 

Between her joy at seeing his lordship safe, 
and her fear for Lady Grace, Alice could hardly 
speak. 

“ ' Oh, my lady ! my lady ! ’ she wailed. ‘ Oh, 
woe, and was it for her the banshee cried ? ’ 

“ Lord Gerald was off his horse quick as a 
flash of lightning, and in a minute had taken hold 
of the girl’s trembling hands. 

‘ What has happened? ’ he cried. ‘ Tell me 
at once ! ’ 

“ How Alice made out to tell him the story 
she never knew, but it seemed scarce three minutes 
before he was galloping off in the direction of 
the forked road. One awful cry she heard from 
him, ‘ The bridge, the bridge! ’ 

‘ The bridge isn’t safe, Alice,’ said Barney. 
' Sure, that’s why we took the long way about, 
and crossed at the ford — we were warned that 


220 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


the rain had made the old bridge weaker. God 
protect her ladyship this night ! ’ 

“ Then he took the girl up on his horse and 
followed his master. They reached Mona’s 
Cross, and turned up the forked road, Lord 
Gerald away off in advance. Suddenly they 
heard a cry they thought they never could forget. 
It was from his lordship. 

When they came up to him, they found him 
at the edge of the river. The old bridge had 
fallen at last ; all the middle of it had been swept 
down the river in the rush of the storm. And 
there stood Lord Gerald on the broken end, and 
in his hands the little hood of her ladyship’s rain- 
coat ! 

Alice shrieked, ‘ Oh, my God ! — she’s 
drowned, — she’s drowned dead ! ’ 

“ ‘ Sh ! ’ whispered Barney, who, looking at 
his master’s face, saw that it was blue-white 
with despair. In another moment the young 
nobleman, flinging his hands above his head like 
a madman, had plunged into the stream. But 
if he did, faithful Barney plunged in after him, 
and with all his strength, dragged him out, and 
pulled him up on the bank. By this time Alice 
was like one distracted. There was Barney 
thrown down utterly exhausted, and there was 
his lordship without a bit of sense at all, at all. 
** * Alice, alanna,’ gasped Barney, when he 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


221 


could get his breath, ‘ do you go over to Delaney’s 
across the field, and tell Pakie to come hither.’ 

“ ‘ Sure, Driscoll’s is nearer,’ said Alice. 

‘ Ah, but they’re a bad lot, and don’t they 
hold spite again his lordship? ’Tisn’t to them 
we should look for help in this sad hour. Let 
you run to Delaney’s, like a good girl.’ 

‘‘ Alice sped across the wet field she knew so 
well, and in a short time she was running back 
with Pakie Delaney. The two men lifted the 
young lord between them and went toward De- 
laney’s, Alice following. 

“ As they passed Driscoll’s, Barney shook his 
head at the little cottage. There was an old 
feud between him and Dark Terence, and he was 
full of mistrust. 

‘ It doesn’t look likely, and yet something 
tells me they’re to blame for this night’s work,’ 
he muttered. 

“ When they reached Delaney’s they forced 
some whiskey down Lord Gerald’s throat, and 
he came to, raving, and so they put him to bed, 
and Pakie went off on Barney’s horse to get the 
doctor, while Barney put dry clothes on himself. 
When the doctor came, he said his lordship’s head 
was struck, and already there was brain fever. 
Ah, then, that was the long night, but the doctor 
wouldn’t leave him. 

‘‘ Along toward morning, who came into the 


222 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


cottage but Sheelah Driscoll, that silent girl that 
would never go in any one’s house. Some used 
to say that she was a kind of fairy. They were 
all queer — the Driscolls, but none could say 
aught against Sheelah, except that there was 
mystery about her. Small wonder, poor girl, 
when she was sister to Dark Terence, and living 
among all that smuggling secrecy. 

“ At any rate there she was for the first time 
in Delaney’s cottage. She had a shawl over her 
head, and she came just inside the door. 

“ ‘ Alice Moloney,’ said she, as soon as she 
saw Alice, ^ it’s a long night I’ve been looking 
for you.’ 

^ And what do you want of her, now that 
you’ve found her ? ’ asked Barney, grimly. 

“ ' It’s her mistress wants her, not I,’ returned 
Sheelah. 

Alice jumped up, and as she did so the 
cloak flew off her. Sure, ’twas only then they 
saw her hair all turned gray from that night of 
terror. 

“ ‘ My mistress ! ’ she cried. ' Sure, she’s 
drowned dead ! ’ 

No,’ said Sheelah, quiet as ever. ‘ She’s in 
our house and in my bed, and she wants to go 
home.’ 

Then maybe Barney and Alice didn’t fall on 
their knees to thank God, 


AN IRISH GHOST STORY 


223 


As for Sheelah, she asked the doctor how 
his lordship was, and says Barney, ‘ Oyea, but 
how did you know he was hurt ? ’ 

‘ Ah,’ says Sheelah, roguish-like, ' don’t I 
know everything ? ’ 

‘‘ ^ Well, if you’re a fairy,’ says Barney, ^ it’s 
the good fairy you’ve been this night, and the 
grace of God be with you ! ’ 

'' ' I thank you, Barney Riordan. ’Tisn’t 
many’ll give good wishes to a Driscoll.’ 

They went over and brought back Lady 
Grace. Dark Terence had found her in a swoon 
beside the broken bridge, and had carried her 
home to his cottage, where Sheelah had cared for 
her. Ah, then, glad was her ladyship to see Lord 
Gerald again, sick and all as he was! 

The Delaneys had to go to another cottage 
for awhile, as his lordship couldn’t be moved, 
and he lay there three months before he got well. 

“For a long time Alice wondered about the 
banshee, until Dark Terence died, when her lady- 
ship told the secret. Terence had great spite 
against Lord Gerald on account of his lordship’s 
interference with the smuggling, and wasn’t he 
planning to kill him that night in the dark road 
between the bridge and Mona’s Cross. When 
he found the bridge broken he thought the master 
had been drowned, especially when he came upon 
Lady Grace in a dead faint on the bank. Then 


224 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


he got sorry. When the trouble was all over, 
Dark Terence repented his wrong ways, and he 
made a good end, after all. 

“ And the banshee f Ah, who was that but 
Sheelah Driscoll herself, who was wishing to 
warn the house against the danger. She was very 
tall and thin, was Sheelah, and with her long 
red hair hanging, and the white gown on her, 
she made a fearsome banshee. There wasn’t one 
in the whole barony could give such a cry as her, 
— ’twas a queer gift, sure, but all the Driscolls 
were queer. 

Well, children, there isn’t much more to tell. 
Lord Gerald and Lady Grace lived happy ever 
after, and had a fine family.” 

“ What’s a fine family? ” asked Brose. 

“ Fourteen children,” answered Frank. Go 
on, Nana.” 

As for Alice,” continued Nana, Barney and 
herself were married, and if she had gray hair 
herself, sure her children’s hair was as black as 
night. And Sheelah Driscoll became Lady 
Grace’s own maid, and was as good and as 
faithful as Alice herself could be.” 

“ That was a terrible long story,” commented 
Brose. And ’twas only a make-believe ghostus, 
after all.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


KING fritz's giants 

The year Grandpapa took the Student to 
Europe ” marks an epoch in the records of the 
Story-Book House. In the first place, the Student 
was no longer a student, save to us. He was a 
full-fledged clergyman at last, but he was so over- 
worn with study, that his bishop, mindful of the 
frail physique and strong mentality of the young 
ecclesiastic, willingly granted him permission to 
accompany his good friend. Colonel Calvert 
Storey, on the health-giving journey across the 
Atlantic. They departed in June, when Uncle 
Papa, at Grandpapa’s request, took up his resi- 
dence at MountStuart for the summer. 

Dear Uncle Papa did everything possible to 
make life pleasant for us, and the others did not 
mind the absence of the Student. But Nana knew 
that I missed her “ boy,” and she was profoundly 
grateful to me for what I could not help. Indeed, 
if truth must out, by this time my feeling for 
our nurse’s gifted nephew was as near love as 
225 


226 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


it is possible for a fanciful child’s sentiments to 
be. Don’t frown, sensible reader. ‘‘ Keep ’mem- 
bering,” as Brose would say, that I was a story- 
loving little girl in the Story-Book House, and 
that even if I had been a grown young lady, the 
Student was an “ impossibility.” I liked to think 
that my affection for him was hopeless; like the 
average girl of my^ years, I loved to pity myself 
in imagined melancholy. Well had darling 
Brose’s lisping tongue renamed me ’Telia 
’Torey.” 

One day in July, Uncle Papa took us to the 
boat-house to which he had put the new landing- 
steps the day before. After we had admired his 
loving handiwork, he proposed to row us across 
the river to Virginia. We used to make believe 
that we were great travellers, sometimes, when 
we could journey so easily from one State to 
another. 

I felt unaccountably weary. The others romped 
for a full hour with Uncle Papa, but I — I sat 
on the sward under a tree and gazed dreamily at 
the river running past and the mountains standing 
still forever. I knew that I had been growing 
weaker; I glanced across the water at the ceme- 
tery on the mountainside, and, in composing for 
myself a harrowing epitaph, took such pleasure 
as nobody but a very young girl can comprehend. 


KING FRITZ’S GIANTS 


227 


The gleeful shouts of my brothers accented the 
pathos of my thoughts; I felt that their turn 
would come to weep, when they should read the 
mortuary inscription of that poor “ Estelle Gratiot 
Storey, daughter of the late Estelle Gratiot and 
Ambrose Manus Storey, aged fifteen,” for I had 
determined to live to a more interesting age. 

Brose ran to me to hide from Frank, and found 
me crying silently. My darling boy stopped, 
struck to the heart. “ My ’Telia ! ” he cried. “ Is 
5'ou hurted, my very dearie?” 

‘‘ Some day, — perhaps very soon, I shall go 
to papa and mamma, and Grandmamma Storey,” 
I was beginning, with tearful heartlessness, when 
poor little Brose set up a howl, which stopped the 
game, and brought Uncle Papa running to us, 
followed by Frank. 

‘‘ My ’Tella’s going to die dead ! ” wailed 
Brose. 

“ Stella die! ” exclaimed Frank. Yes, when 
she’s ninety past. You should see the bowlful of 
oatmeal she finished this morning ! ” 

As a matter of fact, I had eaten little or noth- 
ing for a week of breakfasts, and I was about 
to protest indignantly, when Uncle Papa came to 
my aid. 

“ Estelle is thinner and paler,” he said, looking 
at me tenderly. “ It is the warm weather, without 


228 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


doubt. But if it is not, we must have the doctor 
to bring back the roses and dimples — 

“ Which she never had, Uncle Papa. Stella 
was always slight and white that way, but she’s 
stronger than she thinks she is. Come for a 
romp, Stell; that’s what you want,” advised 
Frank. 

“ No; she is. not lively enough for that,” said 
Uncle Papa, watching me closely. “ We’ll all 
sit here, and Ell tell you a story.” 

“ No; ” I answered, perversely. “ I don’t want 
to hear a story.” 

Uncle Papa looked disappointed, and, wishing 
to finish matters, I said, “ If the Student were 
here. I’d like to hear an Irish story.” 

But Nana — ” 

Oh, I know every one of Nana’s stories! ” 

“ Now, you don’t suppose Uncle Papa knows 
any Irish story?” expostulated Frank. 

“ But I do ! ” was our dear friend’s unexpected 
answer. 

“ As if Nuncle Papa don’t know every kind of 
a ’tory ! ” said loyal Brose. Is it a fairy-tale, 
Nuncle Papa?” 

“ A story of giants,” replied our patient 
Alsatian. 

“ Do tell it. Uncle Papa,” I pleaded, a bit 
ashamed of myself. “ Don’t mind my crossness, 
please I ” And he didn’t, dear Uncle Papa I 


KING FRITZ’S GIANTS 


229 


THE GIANTS 

The father of Frederick the Great was a very 
queer character. You have heard about his 
Potsdam regiment, which was made up of 
gigantic men from all countries. His recruiting 
agents travelled everywhere to get the biggest 
men in the world. The commander was a stal- 
wart German who took great pride in his regiment 
of giants. 

One day the king said to him : “ V on Grosse, 
tell me this. How many nationalities are repre- 
sented in the Big Regiment? ” 

Von Grosse, beaming with pride, answered: 

Most Serene Majesty, the Big Regiment is 
composed first of Prussians. Then come Hano- 
verians, Saxons, Danes, Swedes, Dutchmen, 
Poles, Austrians, and Russians. There is one 
Italian, one Englishman, one Scotchman, and one 
Spaniard. A Frenchman we had. Serene Maj- 
esty, but Grosjean escaped to perfidious France.” 

“ May he wither for it ! ” snarled the king. 

Ah, those French are mad for their land,” 
continued Von Grosse. “ This stupid Grosjean 
cried that he would rather die in bed if he could 
not fight under the lilies of France.” 

“May the lilies wither forever!” cried Fred- 
erick. 

“ We have also in the Big Regiment,” Von 


230 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Grosse went on, “ a great Ethiopian. He is taller 
than any of the others except the mighty Scotch 
giant. Mongolians we found too short for your 
Serene Majesty’s object, but we have a gigantic 
Bedouin.” 

‘‘ And you have an Englishman and a Scotch- 
man ? ” 

“ We have both. Serene Majesty.” 

Frederick William reflected. 

“ An American,” he mused, would mean 
nothing but a savage native, a half-bred Spaniard, 
or a European colonist. Still you have left out 
another country. My kinsman, the Baron Fleisch, 
tells me that sometimes in the English armies 
and sometimes in the forces of France there are 
to be found men who fight as if life were nothing 
to them; who unite the audacity of the French 
with the resistance of the English ; in short, who 
are ideal soldiers. Sometimes these men are 
little, sometimes they are big; always they are 
valiant. I want you. Von Grosse, to get one of 
the biggest for my Big Regiment.” 

“ But, Serene Majesty, you have not given me 
the name of the wonderful country which pro- 
duces such wonderful fighters. It is not Ireland, 
is it, Sire? ” 

“ Even so. Von Grosse. And you must procure 
for me, by buying, begging, or stealing, an Irish 
giant for my Big Regiment.” 


KING FRITZ’S GIANTS 


231 


Ach, those Irish! ” cried Von Grosse. “ Did 
I not meet one of them when we fought at Lor- 
raine ? Ay, truly he was no big man, but he was 
of iron. I was young, too, then, and he subdued 
even big me. He took me prisoner, and I tried 
to speak to him. I spoke in German, he shook 
his head; I tried French, still he did not under- 
stand me. His tongue was as fiery as his head, 
and he repeated one phrase so often and so vio- 
lently that it became fastened in my memory.” 

The king was interested. What was the 
phrase?” he asked. 

“ It was like this, Moortherin' Dootchman/ I 
could make no meaning of it, but a French officer 
told me the man was Irish ; so I conclude that he 
spoke his own language.” 

Frederick laughed. “ Ay, Von Grosse, and 
we will make an Irishman learn German. Send 
Corporal Schwartzerbergenheim to Ireland. He 
is- a trusty man and speaks English. And remem- 
ber,” continued the king, relapsing into severity, 
my wishes must be obeyed speedily.” 

Von Grosse bowed and retired. Within an 
hour he had Corporal S. with the long name all 
ready to start for Ireland. The corporal was 
provided with the necessary passports, and France 
being just then quiescent, he managed to reach 
Ireland in safety. After spending a week there 
he met with no success, and he wrote despairingly 


232 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


to Von Grosse, who was afraid to tell the tyrant. 
A second letter, however, gave better news. He 
had found an Irishman over seven feet tall, who 
wished to see the world, and was willing to ac- 
company Corporal S. He was not so tall as the 
Scotchman or the Ethiopian, but he was Irish, 
every inch of him, and that’s what the king 
wanted. And, by an astonishing coincidence, his 
name was Fred, an unusual one in Ireland. 
Shortly after his arrival the king came to inspect 
the Big Regiment. 

“ Did you get the Irish giant? ” he asked Von 
Grosse. 

‘‘ Yes, Serene Highness. He is not so much 
of a giant, but he is the biggest Irishman we 
could find.” 

“ What is his height ? ” 

Seven feet, one and three-quarter inches,” 
replied Von Grosse, elongating his words as much 
as possible. 

“ Bah! ” said Frederick; “ that’s but a dwarf. 
His name? ” 

“ Fritz, Serene Majesty.” 

“Fritz!” echoed “Serene Majesty,” sternly. 
“An Irishman named Fritz? Impossible! You 
have been deceived. Von Grosse. He is neither 
Irish nor gigantic. You have deceived yourself 
and, worse still, you have deceived me!” 

The king’s voice became terrible. 


KING FRITZ’S GIANTS 


233 


The Irishman had been looking on curiously. 
‘‘What’s the ould bosthoon saying?” he asked 
Corporal S. 

“ He says — it is der Konig — he says you 
haf not enough inches.” 

The Irishman opened his eyes. 

“ I’ve got twice as many as the little weasel 
himself,” he said. 

“ And,” continued the corporal, “ der Konig 
says you are not Eirish.” 

At this the Irishman gave a jump that made 
him three feet taller for a second. 

“ Let me get at him,” he cried, “ and if I don’t 
pound some Irish into him my name’s not Fred 
O’Donnell, and my blood is none o’ the princely 
O’Donnells of Ireland ! ” 

As he spoke he leaped from the ranks, and 
casting his tall helmet on the ground he capered 
before the king. 

“ D’ye want to fight? Are you half a man? ” 
he called out. 

“ Who is the red-haired madman ? ” asked 
Frederick. 

“ It is the Irishman, Serene Majesty.” 

“ And what is he saying? ” 

Von Grosse called Corporal S. to act as 
interpreter. That wily traveller had no idea of 
translating O’Donnell’s speech verbatim. 

“ He says, mo'St Serene Majesty, that if your 


234 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Serene Majesty will pick out any one of the giants 
he’ll fight him to show you the quality of Irish 
blood.” 

Corporal S. retired smiling, having thus com- 
mitted O’Donnell. The Irish giant had given 
him some trouble, and now he was amply to be 
revenged. The king was delighted. 

“ Bring out the Ethiopian ! ” he commanded. 

Von Grosse summoned Umshala, who stalked 
forward in all his black height to confront O’Don- 
nell. 

The Irishman understood instantly what was 
expected of him. He rolled up his sleeves and 
shook his fist in the Ethiopian’s face. 

“ Come on, ye blackguard ! ” he cried. 

Von Grosse took away all weapons from both 
combatants, and they closed in. The black man 
was nine inches taller than O’Donnell, but he 
lacked the muscular activity of the Irishman, to 
whom wrestling was an every-day pastime. In 
a few minutes he threw the Ethiopian. 

O’Donnell aboo ! ” he exclaimed. 

Frederick clapped his hands. '' The Scotch- 
man ! the Scotchman ! ” he cried, excitedly. 

At Von Grosse’s orders an extraordinarily 
large man stepped out. He was immense, tower- 
ing more than a foot above the Irishman. When 
told what was expected of him he smiled tri- 
umphantly and advanced toward O’Donnell. 


KING FRITZ’S GIANTS 


235 


“ MacGregor is my name,” he cried, “ a High- 
lander was I born. Here I stand, eight feet three 
inches high, the biggest man in all the world, 
and glad am I to fight you, man of Ireland, 
man to man, and the biggest man will win.” 

“ The best man will win,” amended the Irish- 
man, secretly appalled at his adversary’s great size 
and confidence. “ Here I stand, O’Donnell of 
the O’Donnells, seven foot one, and there you 
shall lie, MacGregor, eight foot three on the 
ground.” 

This was mere boasting. The contestants 
were unevenly matched. MacGregor had muscle 
in proportion to his size, and twice he almost bent 
O’Donnell to the earth by sheer force of strength. 
It was very exciting. 

The Irishman holds out well,” observed the 
king. 

“ He is active,” said Von Grosse. But he 
will fall. The great Scotchman is the stronger.” 

Even as he spoke MacGregor sprawled on the 
ground, the most astonished as well as the big- 
gest man in the world. The Irishman held his 
head high. 

“ O’Donnell forever ! ” he called. Are there 
any more of ye ? ” 

''Bravo, Irishman!” cried Frederick, while 
Von Grosse motioned the two giants back to their 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


236 

places. “ To-morrow, Von Grosse, I will give 
you a purse of gold for the great Irish fighter.” 

“ Truly he can fight, Serene Majesty.” 

“ Ay, he comes of a nation of fighters,” said 
the king. “ In good truth. Von Grosse, I have 
been informed that these Irish love so well to fight 
that they are always fighting among them- 
selves ! ” 

‘‘But that’s a German story, isn’t it?” said 
Frank. “ You can’t call it Irish because you 
have one Irishman in it, can you?” 

“ It’s the Irishman’s story, ’cause he heated 
all the others,” pronounced Brose, always ready 
to take Uncle Papa’s side of the case. 

“ I think it’s told from a French standpoint,” 
said I. “ I call Grosjean the real hero of the 
tale. But it is a good story, Uncle Papa, thank 
you.” 

“ It is the only Irish story I know,” said Uncle 
Papa. “ And I’m afraid, my dears, that I’ve 
told it like an Alsatian that I am, — half-French, 
half-German ! ” 

It was the last story I was destined to hear for 
a long, long time. Next day I did not feel equal 
to leaving the rocking-chair on the verandah. 
Doctor Tyler was summoned from Storeytown by 
anxious Uncle Papa, and I was ordered tonics of 
various sorts. Every day I was taken for a drive 


KING FRITZ’S GIANTS 


237 


up the mountain road, and day by day, in spite 
of care and medicine, I grew weaker. Grand- 
papa and the Student were expected to be 
home the last week in August, and by that time 
I was unable to be up. 

On the day when Uncle Papa got Grand- 
papa’s telegram, I begged hard to be allowed 
to go with the others to the station. This the 
doctor positively interdicted, but, to please me, 
he gave me permission to sit on the verandah. 
I insisted on wearing my prettiest frock, — 
how well I remember it ! — a rose-pink lawn, 
fluffy with many ruffles. “ The rosy color seems 
to take some of the paleness out of my face,” 
I said. 

I strained my eyes for the first appearance of 
the carriage between the locusts at the end of the 
thorn-hedge. At last! nearer and nearer, now 
in the gates and up the drive. I saw the gray 
head of Grandpapa and the Student’s ruddy 
hair; I heard the ‘‘ Hurrah ! ” of some one, I can’t 
tell who, — I rose to cry ‘‘Welcome!” — and 
then, then I fell back and knew that my mouth 
was filled with something like warm salt water, 
and that all my crisp pink ruffles were drenched 
with crimson, and then I grew fainter, blinder, 
and presently knew nothing at all. 

Doctor Tyler and Grandpapa were in the 
room — my own white, cool room — when I 


238 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


came to realize what a shocking welcome I had 
given our travellers. Nana was kneeling beside 
me, with restoratives in her loving hands. 
“ The excitement precipitated the hemorrhage, ’’ 
the doctor was saying, and I thought in a dull 
way that doctors must be fond of using the 
longest words in the dictionary. “We must 
strengthen her for the time being,” he continued. 
“ By and by a change of climate will benefit the 
lungs.” 

Grandpapa looked at me with an expression 
such as I had never seen in his eyes. “ My dar- 
ling little girl — ” he said, and could say no more, 
for the doctor promptly marched out of the room 
with him. I was forbidden to speak, but I looked 
my question at Nana, and she answered : 

“ Yes, my lamb, he has a tender heart, the 
master. Well I know it, that knew him in my 
dear, dead lady’s happiest days. But ’tis he had 
the store o’ trouble, and small wonder it seemed 
to turn him cold and hard-like. Sure, but this 
new trouble — ^^and a small one ’twill be, please 
God — will bring him anear to his son’s children. 
God’s ways are not our ways, alanna. Ah, then, 
but you’ll love your grandfather when he lets you 
know him rightly, so you will ! ” 


CHAPTER XX. 


FROM LILY - LAND 

By the first week in October I was able to sit 
up, and two weeks later Doctor Tyler pronounced 
me fit for my journey in search of lung-health. 
So Grandpapa — a new and very dear Grand- 
papa — took me to Norfolk, where we rested a 
week, and where our cousin, Mrs. Campion, and 
her nephew, young Campion Storey, joined us. 
Mrs. Campion — she had been Alma Webster 
Storey — was a wealthy childless widow. 
Besides the mines which her husband had 
financed out in New Mexico, and her magnificent 
Washington properties, Mrs. Campion owned a 
plantation in the Bermudas, which she visited 
every winter. As soon as she heard of my illness 
and its nature, she immediately sent word to 
Grandpapa, begging him to take me to spend the 
winter among her lilies. It was very good of 
Mrs. Campion to forget that Grandpapa invariably 
had refused her invitations. This time, for my 
sake, he accepted, and the first of November 
239 


240 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


found us sailing for the beautiful island where 
we were to spend five happy months. 

Within a few weeks the wondrous climate had 
restored to me much of my former strength and 
elasticity, and by Christmas I was pleading to go 
home. But Grandpapa, although he indulged 
my every whim at this time, would not hear of 
my return until perfect health was assured to me. 
So I pottered around the Campions’ lily-fields, 
growing plump and rosy-brown, and resembling 
in nowise the little spectre who had opened 
Grandpapa’s eyes and cut into his sealed heart 
that August afternoon. 

I was fickle ; oh, yes, the beloved Student was 
almost forgotten : I was in love with Grandpapa. 
I studied his tastes ; I tried to please him 
in every way : he was father and mother to me 
ever after his return from Europe. He and Mrs. 
Campion did a good deal of visiting and enter- 
taining while they were at St. David’s; they 
often went to Hamilton and St. George; the 
recluse of the mountains showed that he had not 
forgotten his mastery of social requirements, 
though I’m very sure that these same dues of 
society bored him quite as much as they delighted 
Mrs. Campion. 

The boy. Campion Storey, studied three hours 
every day with old Doctor Seabrooke, whose 
many lilies and few pupils furnished interest to 


FROM LILY -LAND 


241 


a lonely life, ravelling out its last days in peace 
on an island of sunshine and flowers. Campion 
used to wheel me about in my rolling chair at 
first, but very soon I was able to walk, and then 
the kind boy devoted most of his leisure time to 
accompanying me in my rambles among the blos- 
soming fields and along the coral strand. He 
was to return to MountStuart with us. Mrs. 
Campion meant to spend the summer in Eng- 
land, and her brother. Captain Storey, the boy’s 
father, was on army duty in Montana, so 
our house was just the place for “ Camp,” who 
had one bond besides his relationship to draw 
him to us; like the children of the Story-Book 
House, he, too, was motherless. Grandpapa 
seemed to be glad to take young Campion with 
him; he felt that the boy, studious, yet athletic, 
and as gentle-mannered as he was brave-spirited, 
ought to be an excellent comrade for our heady 
Frank. 

What did I do with myself while Camp was 
studying every day ? What do you think ? — I 
wrote my first story ! I meant to surprise Uncle 
Papa and Frank and Brose when the inevitable 

tell a story ” hour should come ; I meant to 
say, I am Brose’s Telia Storey; don’t you want 
to hear me? ” 

We had planned to return about the first of 
April, and you see, it’s an Easter story. When 


242 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


I had finished I made Camp read it to me. Oh, 
yes, Eve written many, many stories since — I 
am truly ’Telia Storey — but not one of them 
all ever gave me the wondering delight excited 
in me by the writing and the reading of this, my 
firstling. 


LAURIE^S LILY. 

I was born in St. David’s Isle, in the Ber- 
mudas. Perhaps you have seen my beautiful 
native country? It is away out in the Atlantic 
Ocean, opposite your Charleston in South Caro- 
lina, and a great many sick people from the States 
go to the dear Lily-land to get well and happy. 

My beloved native isle! There it is always 
summer, though never sultry; there the sweet, 
soft breezes blow with the freshness of the vast 
Atlantic and the fragrance of a million million 
flowers. Oh, for a sight of the coral roads, the 
avenues of royal palm, the hedges spilling roses, 
the valley lilies and violets growing in the shadow 
of the juniper cedars, the wild patches of hya- 
cinth, jasmine, and tuberose, and the tangle of 
roses and woodbine enriching the lowliest cabin 
garden ! Oh, for a glimpse of mine own glorious 
lily field, where my stately-sweet brothers and 
sisters nodded kindly greetings to one another in 
the blue-skied white days of my babyhood! 





FROM LILY .-LAND 


243 


It must be nearly a year since I was dug out 
of my cosy earthen bed. I was then round and 
paly-brown, with many scallops about* my ball-like 
figure. I found myself in the palm of a human 
hand, a pinky yellow palm with dark brown 
edges. Although the sunlight dazzled me, I 
managed to glance up at the face of my digger. 
It was a very black, shiny face, with great pop- 
ping eyes and a great mouth that was all a-teeth 
with a jolly grin. 

“ Hyar’s a fine bu’b. Missy,” said Blackface. 

Then a soft voice spoke. It cert’n’y is a 
nice, plump bulb. Give it to me, Pete.” 

Oh, what a little hand! I completely covered 
it. Then I looked up and saw a girlish face smil- 
ing at me. Missy wore a wide-brimmed straw 
hat over her crop of black curls, and although 
her frock was a simple white print affair, I can- 
not tell you how pretty and graceful she looked 
standing among the tall lily-stalks, the only lily 
abloom in the harvested field. 

Missy bore me to a low verandahed house, 
where a pale little lady sat sewing in the after- 
noon shade. ‘‘ Mamma, isn’t this a perfect 
bulb ? ” cried the girl. 

“ The — finest — yet,” responded the little 
lady, in languid enthusiasm, fondling me with 
thin, bloodless fingers. 

I began to feel a little proud of myself. I had 


244 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


learned my name; I was a bulb, and I was 
classed “ fine,” “ perfect,” and “ finest ” — a 
very gratifying state of things! After all this 
praise I was not a little disappointed to find 
myself thrust into a dark bin with a hundred 
other bulbs, differing from me only in size and 
plumpness. We lay there in the dark a long, 
long time — many months, I believe — and then 
one autumn day we were taken out, baskets were 
filled with us, and we were placed on wheel- 
barrows and wheeled out to the field by jolly 
black Pete and Lucinda, his coffee-colored wife. 

Again I saw Missy, lively and supple, her dark 
curls clustering about her sun-browned neck. 
With her was another girl of about her own age, 
but as different from Missy as possible, a very 
fragile little creature, with great, soft blue eyes 
and thin fair hair. What struck me first about 
her was her likeness to Missy’s mother. Both 
were blonde, delicate, and exceedingly languid ; 
neither, alas ! had my Missy’s glowing health and 
tireless spirit. 

“ I don’t see why mamma thinks that I shall 
get strong here,” said the pale little girl, sitting 
wearily down on the tongue of a wheelbarrow, 
while Lucinda and Missy were burying the 
bulbs in the newly cut furrows of rich, black soil. 

I’m here a whole month and I’m just as tired 


FROM LILY -LAND 


245 


as ever. And then look at Aunt Anna! Why, 
she’s as frail as I am, and she lives here always ! ” 

Missy looked anxious. ‘‘ Do you think 
mamma’s delicate. Cousin Laurie?” And then 
without waiting for an answer, she went on: 

That’s just a look she has, I think. And you, 
Laurie, you’re not exactly frail, you know; you 
are so fair and so — so thin; you have that look, 
too,” she concluded, lamely. 

‘‘Yes, I have ‘that look;’ I might as well 
have stayed at home,” declared Cousin Laurie, 
dejectedly. 

Missy took her by the shoulders. “ Don’t say 
that again, bad girl ! Wait till you see our lilies 
abloom and you’ll never want to go back to 
New York. Now, I’m going to put you to work. 
I want to have some specially fine bulbs in pots, 
and the task of setting them shall be yours.” 

Just then Missy spied me in the wheelbarrow. 

“ Why, here’s my big beauty ! ” she cried. 
“ This is going to be a very queen of lilies. Now, 
Laurie, you’ll find a lot of empty earthen pots 
at the end of the kitchen-garden. Get a ten-inch 
size and bring it here.” 

The little New York girl rose and walked 
slowly toward the herbarium, and Lucinda, 
watching her, muttered : “ Dat ar chile’s feet’s 
hebbier’n all rest ob her. Yas, yo’ right. Missy, 


246 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


mak’ ’er stir 'self. She run round lak yo’, and 
get strong bimeby.” 

•Presently Laurie returned. ‘‘ Such a long 
walk ! ” she gasped. “ And such a heavy flower- 
pot ! " Missy, looking at her wonderingly, took 
the pot lightly between her own brown little 
finger and thumb. 

“ You must fill it now, Laurie,” she said. 
‘‘ That’s right ; put in some pebbles first for 
drainage; now a shovelful of earth — what, you 
can’t lift the shovel? Well, sit down and put 
the earth in by handfuls. Oh, ’twon’t hurt your 
hands; Bermuda soil is the cleanest dirt in the 
whole world, you know; it’s all coral dust and 
seaweed and flower petals. That’s enough earth 
for underneath; now put in the bulb; see! it 
has lovely green spear-points already. Now the 
top layer ; that’ll do — Why, Laurie, Laurie ! ” 

For the little visitor drooped suddenly like a 
blighted lily. “ Oh, I’ve made you work too 
hard ! ” cried Missy, remorsefully. Lucinda 
dipped a gourdful of water from a sprinkling- 
can and tenderly bathed Laurie’s pale face. 

“ I’ll carry her in. Missy. No, she ain’t yo’ 
kind, po’ lil lamb!” 

After that, Laurie was content to sit and watch 
Missy helping Pete and Lucinda. I was taken to 
the verandah, where she poured toy cupfuls of 


FROM LILY -LAND 


247 

water on me every evening. She liked to sit 
in the shade and chat with Missy’s mother. 

It’s so strange,” she said one day. “ Missy 
looks just like my mamma, and she says I am 
like you. Aunt Anna.” 

“ Not so very strange, dear, when your mamma 
is my sister. I named Missy for her when 
I saw that the baby’s eyes were like my dear 
Clare’s.” 

“ Clare’s a pretty name. But her papa — 
he was my Uncle Roger, wasn’t he? — he liked 
to call her Missy, didn’t he? Now, I’ve made 
you cry. Aunt Anna! Well, I’m not sorry that 
Uncle Roger’s gone to heaven ! ” 

The widow smiled through her tears at the 
queer speech. “ Yes,” continued Laurie, hunch- 
ing her shoulders like a very small old grandame ; 

Uncle Roger will be there before us. Aunt 
Anna. For we can’t live so very much longer, 
you and 1.” 

Who told you that ? ” asked Missy’s mother, 
somewhat sharply. 

“ Oh, I know plenty of things I’ve never been 
told. Don’t you eat like a little canary, just a 
pick, as I do ? Don’t you stay awake nights and 
cough — oh. I’ve heard you. You and I are 
going the same road. Aunt Anna ! ” 

Then the little, old-fashioned creature held 


248 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


her aunt’s hand very close, and the delicate 
woman and the invalid child cried softly to- 
gether. 

Christmas came, and a great many of the lilies 
were in bloom for the feast. I am an Easter lily, 
so I was among those kept in the shade for future 
blossoming. I had grown very tall ; I wondered 
greatly to see the long green stalks unfolding 
from my tight little jacket. Oh, how I longed 
for the crowning glory of my lily-blooms! But 
I had never a bud when Laurie went away. 

She was aching to be at home, and every day 
she sat among the pillows on the verandah, watch- 
ing the sea for the steamer which was to bring 
her father and mother to her, and which was to 
bear the three back again to the midwinter city. 
And at last, one day when I had overslept, I woke 
up to find the frail little creature sobbing in the 
arms of a tall, dark-eyed lady, who was the very 
picture of Missy. And then a great-bearded man 
kissed the little girl and cried : “ Now we shall 
have our little Laurie as strong as ever ! ” 

But it was a very weak little Laurie that was 
lifted into the conveying carriage when the boat 
was ready to return. With the smilingly spoken 
stipulation, “ If I live,” Missy’s mother promised 
to spend the summer in New York. But little 
Laurie gave her aunt a queer, sad, last look. 

Good-by, good-by, until I see you again, darling 


FROM LILY -LAND 


249 


Aunt Anna ! ” she cried. '' And, oh, Missy, take 
care of my lily ! ” 

How glad I was that the dear little sufferer 
had not forgotten me! Poor Missy watered me 
with her tears that day, ay, and the next, for her 
mother failed rapidly after Laurie’s departure. 
I heard the doctor tell the weeping Lucinda some 
story about the lungs holding out “ fairly well.” 
But — and after that but ” Lucinda wept anew. 
It was not long until some silently sympathetic 
men came from the town with a strange long 
case, and two days afterwards the case was car- 
ried away in a great black car, and Missy, all in 
black, followed with the two servants. I knew 
nothing of death, but I saw Missy’s mother no 
more. 

Then the new owner of the property came, and 
with him old Doctor Dunstan. Missy was 
pleased to hear that the proprietor, who was 
going to live in the old home, intended to keep 
faithful Pete and Lucinda about the place. Then, 
having gathered all her little worldly belongings, 
the orphan girl went away with the doctor. She 
bore me in her arms, and I saw how kindly 
Doctor Dunstan’s daughters greeted her when 
she arrived at their residence, which was to be 
her temporary home. 

I had six buds when a letter came from Laurie’s 
father and mother — a letter summoning Missy 


250 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


to New York. She was placed in care of the 
steamer captain, and I was still her personal 
charge. She and I watched our dear, beautiful 
island home until it faded from our vision. And 
then all at once, as it seemed, the air turned keen 
and cold. Oh, how I shivered that March even- 
ing when we arrived at the great city — a black 
forest of tall ships and tall houses! I had been 
kept in the warm cabin, and already one of my 
buds was bursting. Poor little Missy and I were 
huddled into a cab, and Missy’s little {runk was 
placed on top, near where the driver sat on his 
funny perch. And then we were rattled through 
ever and ever so many streets until we reached 
Laurie’s number on Lexington Avenue. Then 
the driver got down and rang the bell, and pres- 
ently a man in livery opened the door and scolded 
the cabman whisperingly. All that I heard was, 
“ Ringing the bell at such a time as this ! — can’t 
you see, man ? ” 

What I could see was a lovely garland of 
flowers on the door-bell, and long white streamers 
of ribbon and crepe. I thought it very pretty, but 
poor tired Missy did not notice it at all. Her 
trunk was taken through the*‘area, and she, still 
bearing me in her arms,, was ushered through 
the hall door and up a great polished staircase 
into a lofty room walled to the ceiling with books. 
Missy placed me upon a table and seated herself 


FROM LILY -LAND 


251 


forlornly in one of the huge leather chairs. The 
room was but dimly lighted; indeed, the great 
house seemed to be swallowed in gloom and 
silence. Then I heard the rustling of silken skirts. 
Some one came hurriedly into the room, and 
Missy was folded in the arms of her aunt, who 
moaned rather than spoke, “ Welcome! oh, what 
a welcome I ” 

But why are you crying so. Aunt Clare? 
How is Laurie?” 

Don’t you know. Missy, don’t you know yet ? 
It’s — all over. It was last night. She went 
from us like a little angel. She asked again and 
again, ‘ Did Missy come yet? ’ Just at the last 
she thought she saw her Aunt Anna. Oh, Missy, 
you must be my daughter now — my Laurie 
wished it so ! She said, ‘ Mamma, I was too like 
poor Aunt Anna, but Missy is Little You.’ ” 
I’m sure I don’t know why they were crying. 
I didn’t understand a bit of the conversation until 
Missy said, sobbingly : “ And I brought her the 
lily she planted herself — oh, look. Aunt Clare, 
the very first Easter lily has opened for her ! ” 

It was true; my first bud was in full blos- 
som. 

I have five lilies now all ready for Easter 
Sunday, and four new buds, and I wonder why 
Laurie, who was so fond of me, doesn’t come 


252 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


to see me! They cut my first lily, and I heard 
some one say that it was placed in Laurie’s hands. 
I love Missy dearly, of course, but I wish little 
Laurie would not neglect me so! 


CHAPTER XXL 


AN EASTER EGG 

Camp was very much interested when I de- 
scribed our “ Story-Book House.” 

“ But you’re too fond of living in a world of 
unreality,” he protested. 

“ A world of imagination,” I corrected, firmly ; 
‘‘ the nicest world in the world. Camp. Wait 
until you see.” 

Toward the end of March Mrs. Campion paid 
her farewell visits, and the first of April found 
us on the steamer, homeward bound. Mrs. 
Campion returned to Washington to prepare for 
her journey to England, and Grandpapa, Camp, 
and I went straight to Storeytown, where the 
loving and loved ones greeted us as we left the 
train. I was admired and petted beyond measure. 

The darlin’, — she’s as fat as butter ! ” cried 
dear Nana, the great tears streaming down her 
wrinkled face, as she held me to her faithful heart 
in an ecstasy of joy. 

“ It is most becoming,” declared Uncle Papa, 
253 


254 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


gallantly. “ Estelle was too spirituelle, — there’s 
poetry, mes enfants! — She has the color of the 
beautiful rose La France, and all the hiding 
dimples you denied her. Master Frank!” 

“ You look real fit, Stell; ” decided Frank. But 
Brose, my darling, slipped his chubby arms 
around my neck as I bent to kiss him, and he 
whispered, My ’Telia! You are looking like 
my dream-mamma, my very^earie! ” 

Who was on the verandah but Grandme ? The 
poor Madame had hastened from New Orleans 
when she heard of my attack, only to arrive at 
MountStuart the day after we had sailed from 
Norfolk. So she had braved the discomforts of 
our mountain winter for once, sharing Nana’s 
cares with unwonted diligence, while she impa- 
tiently awaited our return. For you must know, 
that, because of my name, and a certain French 
look I am supposed to have, I was Madame 
Grandme’s favorite, and the fear of my early 
death moved her beyond her wont. Now, as she 
embraced me, she, like Nana, shed tears of joy 
as she verified dear Brose’s dreams in her first 
words, “ My love, you have grown so like your 
pretty mamma ! ” 

We were tired enough to sleep well that night, 
after we had sent our stores of Bermuda lilies 
to the little church, where we saw them in their 
glory the next morning — Easter Sunday. We 


AN EASTER EGG 


255 


were too excited to think of stories until after tea 
the next evening, when Camp told Frank that I 
had written a tale of the Bermudas. Of course 
I had to read it then, and after “ Laurie’s Lily ” 
had been applauded beyond its merits, Madame 
told us a French Easter story. 


THE FRECKLED EGG 

It was Saturday, the eve of Easter, 1600. 
Celeste was swinging on the cottage gate, with 
her eyes fixed dreamily on the vivid blue of the 
sky, and all her young senses enjoying the beauty 
and the balm of the fresh spring morning. Yet 
Celeste was murmuring to herself, “ I wish — 
I wish ” — not that she might be permitted to 
swing forever on an old-fashioned gate in the 
April sunlight, which would have been a most 
fairylike wish, indeed, — I wish,” thought 
Celeste, “ that I might have eggs for Easter, too. 
1 wish grandmother was like other grandmothers. 
Raoul and Pierre and Yvonne and Marie and 
Jeanne have dozens of eggs for to-morrow. I 
wish Uncle Victor wasn’t so fierce-looking. I 
wish I could have even one egg. I wish I could 
have the big egg of Uncle Victor’s big foreign 
guinea-hen. I wish — ” 

“Celeste!” called grandmere, and the little 


256 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


maid leaped to the ground instantly and ran 
inside, for grandmere wasn’t to be trifled with, 
as Celeste knew. 

Idle girl! ” cried the old woman; my old 
bones are far more lively than thy young limbs. 
Thou’lt be a beggar or an emigrant yet, as thou 
wouldst be now but for my care. Get thee 
quickly to Maitre Bouchet with this basket of 
eggs and bring me back the price — three francs. 
Spill none of them, pay no heed to loiterers, and 
put the money in thy purse. If anything be 
lost — ” 

Grandmere merely held up one rigid finger very 
near her sharp nose, and Celeste knew well that 
punishment would follow any disobedience. Yet 
she hesitated. 

Grandmere,” she faltered, “ may I not have 
a few eggs for Easter ? ” 

“ A few eggs ! ” echoed the grandmother, in 
tones of astonishment. “ May the Pasch never 
dawn if the little idiot doesn’t ask for eggs as 
if they were broken stones in the roadway I What, 
must I toil from morning till night feeding and 
caring for chickens in order that thou mayst 
eat eggs? Victor tells me that in some foreign 
lands eggs are sacred — that none would dare 
to eat them because they hold the principle of 
life. And truly, it grieves me to see fools eating 
eggs when they might have chickens if they but 


AN EASTER EGG 


257 


waited. Go, go, and hasten ; let me hear no more 
nonsense about eggs. What, wilt thou linger 
until I get the cane ? ” 

Celeste looked pleadingly at the old woman. 

“ I will go now, grandmere,” she said. “ But 

— but do you think Uncle Victor would give me 
an egg? ” 

“ Victor ! Thy uncle is no egg merchant, 
simpleton.” 

“ No; but, grandmere, I was down at the coop 
this morning where the great foreign fowls are, 
and I peeped in, and, grandmere, I saw an egg 

— such a big egg ! and all freckled like Pierre 
I.atour’s nose. I know the big birds are Uncle 
Victor’s, and I thought he might give me the 
big egg, and — oh, grandmere ! you are hurting 
my arm ! ” 

For the old woman had grasped her with 
sudden violence. 

“ Gabbler ! ” she cried. “ Have I not told thee 
to keep a still tongue about the foreign fowls? 
If some knew we had them, they would be stolen 
ere the morrow. Thine uncle might make a 
fortune exhibiting them, but that he is afraid of 
thieves. The only New World fowls in all 
France, and Mademoiselle must have the first 
egg, forsooth! Away, light-head! There is the 
basket.” 

Celeste took up the basket and went out silently. 


258 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


wishing aga^in that grandmere would be like 
other grandmothers. She was the only mother 
the child had ever known, and her rule was as 
stem as her hand was close. As stingy as 
Mere Minot,” was a proverb in St. Etienne. Her . 
son, Michel, Celeste’s father, had been killed in 
battle; her other son, Victor, was an adventurous . 
sailor, who was seldom at home, and her husband 
had been dead for twenty years. Mere Minot 
was popularly supposed to have an immense 
hoard of money. She was an indefatigable 
worker, and her piece of ground yielded more 
francs than it would have accorded sous to a 
less active farmer. She had hotbeds, and cold- 
frames, and was famous for her early berries and 
salads, which were bought at enormous prices 
by Maitre Bouchet, the steward of Monsieur le 
Due, at the great chateau on the hill. She sup- 
plied eggs and butter and cheese also to the 
ducal household, as well as to some less noble 
establishments. It would be singular indeed if 
Celeste’s thrifty grandmother had no money. ^ 

But the little girl had never known the luxuries 
of good living. Sometimes she had been 
given a generous slice of cake in the chateau 
kitchen, and grandmere always relaxed so far as 
to put one egg in the currant cake at Christmas, 
the only feast kept in the Minot cottage. 

There were three dozen eggs in the basket for 


AN EASTER EGG 


259 


the chateau. Celeste found herself wondering 
how people could afford to eat so many eggs. 
And some of the peasants ate — actually ate 
— butter. Celeste and her grandmother lived year 
, in and year out on black bread and skimmed 
milk, a diet more wholesome than gratifying. 
The little maid sighed. Grandmere was right, 
of course, but how wrong must be the Latours 
and the Dumonts who always gave their children 
a basketful of eggs for Easter ! 

She came back from the chateau with the 
money safely in her pocket, and the empty bas- 
ket swinging on her arm. At the foot of the 
hill, where the little brook splashed over its 
white stones, were the young Dumonts and 
Latours, Marie and Yvonne and Raoul of the 
first name, and Pierre and Jean of the last. 

Here is Celeste ! ” cried Marie Dumont. 

Look, Celeste ; Pierre Latour has the biggest 
egg you ever saw.” 

“ Oh, I have many eggs for Easter,” boasted 
Pierre. ‘‘Where, Celeste, are your eggs?” 

“Pm tired looking at eggs,” said Celeste, call- 
ing her pride to her aid. 

“ Looking at them, oh, yes ! that’s all you can 
do.” Pierre was not the best specimen of a six- 
teenth-century boy. ‘*You can’t touch an egg,” 
he went on. “ I believe you’ve never had an 
egg of your own. What would you give to have 


26 o 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


one like this ? ” displaying an enormous goose- 
egg. “ Did you ever see an egg as big as that? 

Ay” retorted Celeste, thoughtlessly. “ Nearly 
as big and as freckled as your face.” 

The other children laughed merrily, and 
Pierre reddened with vexation. 

“ Lying is easy,” he remarked, meaningly. 

“ Not to Celeste,” interposed Yvonne Dumont. 
‘‘ Celeste never told a lie in her life.” 

Let her show us this wonderful egg, then,” 
said Pierre. 

But Celeste was frightened by this time and 
sorry for her reckless boast. 

Grandmere wouldn’t let you in, you know,” 
she explained, timidly. 

“ Ho ! that’s a fine excuse,” cried Pierre. I 
knew there was no such egg.” 

“ Get it. Celeste, and show it to him,” said 
Marie. 

Seeing — is — believing,” drawled Pierre, 
scornfully. 

Celeste hastened back to the cottage. Grand- 
mere had forbidden her to speak of the turkeys. 
After all, she had not mentioned them. She had 
spoken only of the egg. She persuaded herself 
that this was not the same thing, and even if she 
did show the egg to that impudent Pierre Latour, 
he need never know but that a goose had laid it. 
So she consoled herself with bare possibilities, 


AN EASTER EGG 


261 


after the manner of those who work against con- 
science. 

She reentered the cottage and laid the empty 
basket on the table. The day was so mild and 
drowsy that grandmere had fallen asleep in a 
chair with her wrinkled hand on the churn. 
Celeste slipped out again noiselessly, and hastened 
to the barn-yard. In a strong coop were the 
strange birds, looking wistfully out upon the 
chickens cackling and running about in freedom. 
Uncle Victor had said that these new Indian 
birds were wild : he was taming them by cap- 
tivity. They did not look savage, thought Celeste, 
and what beauties they were with their rich fawn- 
colored coats! Uncle Victor had brought them 
from America; when they were tame he would 
sell them — perhaps to the king. 

Certainly the first turkeys in France had grown 
stupid in their prison. Celeste reached her hand 
through the bar and withdrew the great mottled 
egg without any difficulty. Wrapping it care- 
fully in her apron she hurried back to the foot 
of the hill. 

‘‘ Well, have you brought it ? ’’ demanded 
Pierre. 

Celeste opened her apron, and the children 
crowded about her with long-drawn oh’s ” of 
admiration. 

“ It is a great egg, truly,” admitted Pierre. 


262 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


In spite of Celeste’s protestations he caught it 
up and laid it beside the goose egg on the bank. 

“ Yes, it’s almost as large as my big egg,” he , 
added, taking one up in each hand as if to judge 
by weight. 

And it’s all freckled like your face, as Celeste 
said,” laughed Raoul. “ If it had a bunch of 
red hair about it, it would answer for your very 
picture, my good Pierre.” 

Pierre’s easily aroused temper boiled up 
instantly. He dropped the egg and doubled his 
hand into a fist to strike Raoul. The egg fell, 
rolled, and broke on the brook stones in a great 
yellow splotch. 

‘‘ Oh ! ” cried Celeste, aghast, “ you’ve broken 
my big egg! ” 

Pierre thrust the other egg into his blouse. 

“ Yes, it’s broken,” he said, sulkily. “ But you 
had no right to compare my face to a freckled 
egg : the loss is your own fault.” 

Celeste threw her apron over her head and fled, 
sobbing wildly. How could she ever face grand- 
mere? Why, why had she not been silent? She 
saw now that all her argument had been false, 
and that she was really guilty of grave disobedi- 
ence. Grandmere, who was so stern, even when 
Celeste did not deserve harshness, what would 
she not do now, when a real fault had been com- 
mitted? But there was a brave strain in this 


AN EASTER EGG 


263 

little daughter of a sixteenth-century soldier. She 
wiped her eyes and marched home steadily to 
face the music.” 

Grandmere was busy getting dinner ready, and 
she was in a very bad humor for having allowed 
herself to nap in midday. Uncle Victor was 
smoking a pipe full of that strange Indian herb 
called tobacco, the fumes of which delighted 
Celeste, who, fearful as she was of him, took 
much pleasure in watching her seafaring uncle. 

Victor Minot was tanned almost to copper- 
color by his many voyages in tropical seas. His 
eyes had the hard, eager expression caused by 
much searching and straining of vision over sun- 
mirrored expanses of water. These, and his long 
black hair and bushy beard, gave him a piratical 
look, which was in no way lessened by the scarlet 
cap and glowing neckerchief which habitually he 
wore. He had been at home for two weeks, 
and Celeste had never overcome her fear of him. 

Laggard ! ” cried grandmere. ‘‘ Lay the 
plates with speed. Would’st have thine uncle 
starve? ” 

‘‘ Nay, mother,” said Uncle Victor; it is the 
last of the Lenten days, and we must still keep 
fast. But thin milk and black bread will not do 
for Easter fare. We must have the Pasch feast 
to-morrow, mother.” 

Except at the blessed Christmas-time,” replied 


264 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Mere Minot, “ the good bread and milk has sup- 
ported me these twenty years, ever since thy 
father died. But for thee, Victor,” she said, 
softening a little, I will prepare a dinner fit for 
a man to-morrow. I have been so much alone 
that I do not heed the luxury of the table. But 
I will do for my son what I always did for his 
father, and to-morrow thou shalt eat thine Easter 
feast even if I refrain.” 

And the little one?” queried Victor, with a 
note of pity in his voice. 

The little one has been accustomed to my 
mode of living. It will be all the better for her 
by and by.” 

** Are you to have plenty of eggs to-morrow, 
my little Celeste?” asked Uncle Victor, kindly. 

Celeste looked at him shyly. He did not seem 
to be so fierce, after all. If he would trim his beard 
and curl his hair in long ringlets like M. le Due’s, 
he would be quite handsome, even though he wore 
a leathern jerkin in place of a velvet doublet. 

“ She shall have no eggs,” replied Mere Minot, 
firmly. “ She is twelve years old, old enough to 
comprehend that when I get a franc for every 
dozen of eggs it would be swallowing money to 
eat them.” 

'' Go, Celeste,” said Uncle Victor ; in the 
New Indian bird-coop you will find a large egg. 
Bring it hither.” 


AN EASTER EGG 


265 


Poor Celeste! Her face grew ashy pale, and 
she trembled while she was making up her mind 
to speak out courageously and tell the truth. 

“Why dost thou hesitate?” stormed her 
grandmother. I am in no good humor, I 
promise thee, and if thou dost not hurry Fll make 
thee suffer for it. Away, when thine uncle bids 
thee go I ” 

Celeste gave one despairing look and ran out. 

“ You are harsh with the child, mother,” ob- 
served Victor, gravely. 

“ Harsh ! ” echoed Mere Minot in evident sur- 
prise. “ Harsh with Celeste, when Pm working 
from morn till night and denying myself necessi- 
ties that she may have a dower ? ” 

“ A little kindness may be better than a large 
fortune,” replied her son. “ I know you mean 
to be kind, but what will your savings profit you 
if Celeste runs away?” 

“ If Celeste runs away! ” repeated Mere Minot. 
“ She would not do that ; where could she go ? 
And it would break my heart if she left me.” 

“ Better let her know that, I think,” said the 
sailor, drily. “ If I ever saw an unhappy face, it 
was that of poor Celeste just now.” 

While her uncle was thus pleading in her be- 
half, Celeste was walking mechanically toward 
the barn-yard — her heart as heavy as lead and 
her temples aching with agitation. 


266 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ What shall I do? what shall I do? ” she mur- 
mured, wildly. “ If grandmere hadn’t been so 
cross I’d have spoken out to Uncle Victor; he 
looked so kindly at me. I can never go back now. 
I must run away. Oh, I wonder if I could go to 
the new land beyond the seas, where I might be 
tiring-maid to an Indian princess ! ” 

By the time she had uttered this ambitious 
desire she found herself in front of the great 
coop. 

“ Oh, oh, golden-bird ! ” she sobbed, addressing 
one of the brown-plumaged inmates, I wish you 
could take me on your back and fly away with me 
to your own land ! ” 

The turkey-hen addressed looked solemnly at 
her and moved away. Celeste peered into the 
coop where the other American birds were lazily 
perched. 

“ How large the new fowls are ! ” she cried, 
and how unhappy they look. I wonder if they 
are homesick. I wish — oh ! ” 

The last was a cry of delight. Celeste slipped 
her hand between the bars and drew forth 
another egg. It was even larger than the first, 
and it had the same freckled complexion. Here 
was an easy solution of her difficulty ! She placed 
the treasure in her apron and set off at full speed 
toward the cottage. Suddenly she stopped. What 
should she say? Why, that she had found the 


AN EASTER EGG 


267 


egg, of course! But this was not the egg laid 
yesterday ; this was a new one. Well, who knew ? 

“ No one,’^ she cried, defiantly. “ None but 
myself — and — and, of course, God. God 
knows everything.” 

The tears rolled down her face. The young 
soul was struggling with the powers of darkness. 

“ God knows everything,” she repeated, rev- 
erentially. ‘‘Shall he know me as a liar? No, 
no, no! It is a lie to conceal the truth. I will 
tell grandmere.” 

She ran even faster than before, lest her reso- 
lution should be shaken, and she entered the 
cottage hurriedly and stood before her two rela- 
tives. 

“ Here is an egg I found in the coop,” she 
said, breathlessly. “ It is the second one I found. 
I took one out this morning to show it to Pierre 
Latour, and he broke it.” 

“ Thou’st disobeyed me ! ” cried Mere Minot, 
in wrathful amazement. 

“ You broke an Indian egg! ” exclaimed Uncle 
Victor, quite as angrily. Then he paused. 

“ Why did you not tell us so at first? ” he said. 

Celeste looked timidly at Mere Minot. 

“ I was afraid of grandmere,” she murmured. 

“ And having found another egg, you tell us 
of the first one, though we should have known 


268 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


nothing about it,” said Uncle Victor, wonder- 
ingly. 

“ If thou wert afraid to tell me at once, why 
art thou not afraid now? ” demanded her grand- 
mother. 

Celeste did not know the limits of grand- 
maternal jurisdiction. Perhaps grandmere could 
have her head cut off, or could send her to prison 
for life. 

“ I am afraid of you, grandmere.” The sol- 
dier’s daughter looked into the eyes of the sol- 
dier’s mother. “ But — but I am more afraid of 
God.” 

Bravo ! ’Tis a thousand pities she is not 
Celestin instead of Celeste,” cried Uncle Victor. 
“ The king needs men with hearts like thine, my 
brave Celeste!” 

The girl was on her knees before Mere Minot. 

Punish me,” she cried, piteously ; but grand- 
mere looked at her, softly saying : “ Thou’rt pun- 
ished enough, true heart,” and she actually kissed 
her. 

Then who should come in but Raoul Dumont 
with the original turkey egg ! Pierre had broken 
the goose egg, and slipped the other one into his 
blouse, but Raoul had noted the action, and cap- 
tured the great speckled egg after a battle, in 
which the coveted object barely escaped breakage. 

Uncle Victor gave the boy a silver piece for his 


AN EASTER EGG 


269 

pains and Celeste thanked him tearfully. When 
he had gone grandmere said : 

“ Celeste, I will give thee six eggs for to- 
morrow. Thou’rt but in the Easter time of life, 
after all, and why should my winter cloud thee? ” 

'' Very true, mother,” said Victor Minot, ap- 
provingly. “ And I, Celeste, will give you one of 
the India eggs.” 

'' I shall have it for my Easter egg, then, 
uncle,” said Celeste, but I won’t cook it.” 

‘‘ Is it too large to eat, think you ? ” inquired 
Uncle Victor. 

Nay, but I want the first French Indian fowl 
to come out of my Easter egg,” replied Celeste, 
smilingly. 

“Now shall I say bravo!” said grandmere. 
“ Celeste is no simpleton, after all.” 

Celeste had a very happy Easter, and grand- 
mere and Uncle Victor shared her pleasure. She 
put the “ freckled Easter egg ” back into the coop 
on Monday, and in time she had the satisfaction 
to see a little, fluffy, brown chick, hopping about 
as unconcernedly as if he were not the first of 
his kind to open his eyes in sunny France. 
Celeste named him “ Easter,” and he was quite 
a pet, until he had several brothers and sisters. 
Then he was sent — where? To the court, and, 
alas, for poor Easter I to the royal table. There 


270 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


was a joke current in St. Etienne for some time 
after. It ran thus : 

In what year did Easter and Christmas come 
together ? ” 

“ In 1600, when the first French turkey 
(Easter) graced King Henri’s Christmas din- 
ner.” 

Rather a poor joke, wasn’t it? But it is said 
that the king smiled at it, and then of course 
the courtiers laughed, and all that was enough 
to make it a very excellent jest indeed. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


THE CHRISTMAS STORY - NIGHT 

Even in a Story-Book House, childhood speeds 
away all too swiftly. Frank was eighteen; he 
and Campion entered Harvard that September, 
when I went to Georgetown Convent. Grand- 
papa wrote to me every week, telling me all about 
the Story-Book House, and its narrowed circle 
of Storeys. Brose and Nellie were making sat- 
isfactory progress at the Storeytown Academy; 
Brose was losing the lisp which had clung to him 
beyond lisping age. Nana’s health was poor that 
year, and Madame had decided to remain at 
MountStuart for another winter, instead of pro- 
ceeding to New Orleans. I’m afraid Madame 
Grandme had a little tiff with her Louisiana rela- 
tives about that time, and they were obliged to 
‘‘ make up ” to her most appealingly, in order 
to induce her to visit them the following year. 

As this was the first time I had attended school 
away from home, needless to say, I counted the 
weeks, and then the days, and the hours to the 
271 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


272 

Christmas holidays. At last! Grandme kindly 
came to Georgetown to take me home, although 
by this time I was a girl of fifteen, grown almost 
to my full height (which is but five feet three) 
and sufficiently well able to take care of myself 
on so short a journey. But Madame Grandme 
was nothing if not punctilious. “ A work-girl 
may travel alone; but a demoiselle? no,’’ she 
explained to the smiling superior, who knew as 
well as I did that an American girl may be trusted 
to travel from ocean to ocean, without fear, and 
without reproach. 

“ Captain Storey is expected to-morrow ; we 
shall have quite a family reunion,” Grandme 
told me, as our train pulled out from the station. 

“ He will be surprised to see how tall Camp 
has grown,” said I. “ Grandpapa is very fond 
of Camp.” 

He is a young gentleman, your Camp,” 
vouchsafed Grandme. “ Now, Francis is a clever 
boy, handsome and witty, but he is not respectful, 
not considerate, like his cousin. It is well for 
your brother that he has for companion so very 
French a boy.” 

‘‘ I don’t think Camp’s a bit French, Grandme: 
why should he be? He has no French ancestry 
such as we have through mamma. He’s just 
a nice American boy ! ” 

The nice American boy had driven down to 


THE CHRISTMAS STORY -NIGHT 273 

Storeytown station to meet us. “ Where is 
Frank? I asked. 

He is reading to Nana. She has been saving 
all sorts of newspaper clippings about her 
nephew’s sayings and doings, and Frank is de- 
claiming every word to her in oratorical style. 
He’s a natural orator, did you know? Yes, in- 
deed; Frank’s the only Freshman in the Demos- 
thenian Society at college.” 

“ Camp,” said I, Frank may win the highest 
honors in his university and I sha’n’t be half so 
proud of him as I am to-day. Think of his 
bothering to read to his old nurse on the first of 
his holida3^s! Now, Grandme, isn’t he consid- 
erate? ” 

Madame smiled. His old Nana is devoted 
to Francis,” she made answer. “ I am pleased 
to know that he is not ungrateful to her.” 

But Frank was personally interested in the 
readings, as he informed us, after we had ex- 
changed greetings. What do you think of the 
Student, Stell? Why, he’s forging ahead like a 
locomotive ! What do you make of this ? ” 

And he proceeded to read for us whole col- 
umns, short paragraphs, liberal quotations from 
discourses by the Reverend Doctor Cleary. One 
journal termed the young clergyman “ the Bos- 
suet of America.” Another said, “ Doctor Cleary 
is the prince of pulpit oratory. His voice, singu- 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


274 

larly sweet in its rich reverberations, is a wonder- 
fully apt vehicle for the delivery of his deeply 
meaningful, poetically phrased, brilliantly polished 
ideas.” Here were adverbial adjectives, and to 
spare ! 

“ Oh, I always knew that our Student would 
be Somebody,” said 1. “ But you, Frank, how 

well — how very well you read ! ” 

“Doesn’t he?” cried Nana, her voice quaver- 
ing with eagerness. “ Sure and maybe, then, 
he’ll be saying blessed words in a pulpit of his 
own some day ! ” 

Camp and Frank shouted their ha-ha-ha. 

No, no, Nana,” said Frank. “ I’ve decided to 
be a judge, so I’m going to study law. Why, 
you ought to be ridiculously proud, old lady. One 
of your boys a bishop-to-be, and the other a 
judge! Say ‘ Yes, your Honor! ’ ” 

And Nana had to say it before he released her 
from a choking hug. Ah, we all loved Nana, 
and well she deserved our love! 

Christmas night found us gathered around the 
great hall fire, which had not been lit before since 
the last Christmas of Grandmamma Storey’s life. 
I sat next to Grandpapa, with my arm around my 
darling Brose, and Frank was perched on the 
broad arm of Nana’s easy chair. Captain Storey 
sat between his son and Madame, with Nellie 
upon his knee. We knew that the “ Student,” as 


THE CHRISTMAS STORY - NIGHT 275 

we still called Doctor Cleary, could not be with 
us, but I was not a little disappointed at Uncle 
Papa’s absence. He had been summoned to 
Washington on some legal business. I recollect 
that I laughed when I heard this, and wondered 
what in the world Uncle Papa was doing with 
the mighty machinery of the law. We were to 
know all too soon. 

Captain Storey was every inch a soldier, tall, 
broad, bronzed like an Indian. He knew enough 
stories to fill a book, and they were true tales, 
every one. His experiences during the Indian 
skirmishes would make your hair fairly stiffen 
on your head. Some of these days I must write 
a volume of “ Captain Storey’s Stories ” — don’t 
you think that’s a good title? 

We carolled old English Christmas carols, 
God rest you, merry gentlemen,” “ King Yule 
is the king of the old, old year,” and, to please 
Grandpapa, I sang the Latin hymn, ‘‘ Adeste 
Fideles,” just as I had sung it in the convent choir. 
Then my soprano joined Captain Storey’s bass, 
Camp’s baritone, and Frank’s tenor in When 
Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.” 

We sat in silent meditation, gazing into the 
red-velvety glow of the fire-log, when Frank said : 
‘‘ Well, Camp, what about — ” 

And Camp reddened, and pleaded: 


276 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


‘‘Don’t, Frank!” 

“ Aha ! ” cried Captain Storey, with a keen- 
eyed side-glance at his tall son. “ What have you 
been doing. Camp?” 

“ I have the honor to introduce to the family 
the family poet,” said Frank, with mock rever- 
ence. 

“ ’Tisn’t fair,” stammered modest Camp. “ He 
stole it out of my desk.” 

“ It ? ” queried I. 

“ Doggerel ; a Christmas ballad.” 

“ If I’d found it in time, the editors of the 
Lampoon should have had it,” said Frank. 
“ Listen, ladies and gentlemen ! ” 

We listened with eager interest, while our 
orator interpreted our poet : 


YE BALLADE OF SIR CHRYSTMASSE 
A Medicsval Yule-tide Story 

Sir Wilfred Dene of Castledene, a lordly knight was he; 

Of royal line his beauteous spouse, the Ladye Aylmerie. 

When Christmas came to every home, when every Eng- 
lish hearth 

Burned brighter with the glow of Yule to light the Babe to 
earth. 

Sir Wilfrid and his high-born dame were sad in Castledene ; 

No laughter circled round the board, — no ivy glistened 
green ; 


THE CHRISTMAS STORY -NIGHT 277 

The servants stepped with noiseless tread the polished halls 
along, 

And only kitchen rafters heard a snatch of Christmas song. 


Last Christmas Eve my Ladye’s grief had all but stifled 
prayer ; 

The little heir of Castledene, her boy, lay dying there; 


And when the joyous Christmas bells proclaimed the 
Saviour’s birth. 

Young Cyril Dene had closed his eyes forever on the earth. 

So Christmas brought but saddest thought to the Ladye 
Aylmerie ; 

Before the blazing fire she sat' in mournful reverie; 


She gazed beyond the leaping flames, between the coals 
aglow. 

And painted through her welling tears the vision of her 
woe : 

A picture framed in sun-bright hair and lit with eyes of 
blue — 

That picture buried in the snow beneath the churchyard 
yew ! 

A wailing rose above the wind : — it passed my Ladye’s 
heed ; 

Her dreams were circling round her boy, and fancy filled 
her need. 

Sir Wilfrid, startled, glanced around. He left his Ladye’s 
side. 

And summoned Dickon to unbar the hall-door great and 
wide. 


278 THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 

“ Now hasten, Dickon, bear the torch! ” The drifting snow 
was piled. 

And on a bank the light revealed a woman and a child. 

Sir Wilfrid crossed himself in awe, and doughty Dickon 
cried, 

“ The Blessed Mother and her Babe have come at Christ- 
mas-tide ! ” 

His master bent above the twain. The baby laughed aloud, 

While the snow about its mother wove a blanket — and a 
shroud. 

The stout retainers bore her in, and labored long in vain. 

Nor could their striving summon back her winging soul 
again. 

They locked the violet of her eyes; they bound her yellow 
hair ; 

With crucifix they crossed her hands; they prayed her 
requiem prayer. 

Sir Wilfrid held the orphaned babe against his stalwart 
breast ; — 

The wee thing smiled, and cuddled there like a fledgling in 
its nest. 

The master murmured “ Pity I ” as he strode within the 
room 

Where the Ladye dreamed and the firelight gleamed and 
the corners held the gloom. 

The dreamer knew his footfall; her eyes still sought the 
flame : 

“Methought I heard a cry,” she said, “as if Cyril called 
my name ? ” 


THE CHRISTMAS STORY - NIGHT 279 

“ Thou thinkest too much on Cyril/’ Sir Wilfrid made 
reply : 

“ Our boy is with his Saviour. Thou heard’st a passing 
cry; — 


“ A woman — died — within our gates — ” The babe cooed 
merrily, 

And grave Sir Wilfrid laid the waif upon his Ladye’s knee. 

Oh, the mother-heart was empty, and the lone arms opened 
wide. 

As she clasped the babe with a gladsome cry that blessed 
Christmas-tide ! 

The light on her radiant features was none of the firelit 
glow : 

“ He hath Cyril’s eyes and Cyril’s hair, this child of the 
Christmas snow ! 

“ Ah, Wilfrid ! if none should claim him, the babe may 
be thine and mine. 

For thou hast never a kinsman to strive for the right of 
line.” 

Sir Wilfrid smiled as she kissed the child with a new 
maternal joy: — 

“ Christ’s mother sent thee, motherless one, and thou shalt 
be my boy ! ” 

“Shall we name the waif for our own dear boy?” dead 
Cyril’s father said. 

“ Nay, none can ever be Cyril Dene ! He that comes in 
our lost one’s stead 

“Will share his love, may wear his rights, — but his name? 
’Twere a pain too keen! 

I'he babe is a gift of Christmas ; may we call him 
Christmas Dene? 


28 o 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ I will plead with my royal kinsman to grant him a noble’s 
right ; 

The child that was given by Christmas shall be King 
Richard’s knight ! ” 


The Ladye sought the monarch the infant’s suit to pray; 
King Richard heard his cousin, and he did not say her nay. 


The pleaders knelt before the King ; — sooth, ’twas a win- 
some scene 

When royal sword touched baby curls : “ Arise — Sir 

Christmas Dene! 


“ Be kind as my Ladye cousin and brave as her worthy lord ; 
Give England’s friends thy good right hand and England’s 
foes thy sword 1 ” 


Oh, merry and merry was Castledene when Christmas 
came again. 

And young Sir Christmas heard the song of, “ Peace, 
good will to men 1 ” 


Oh, the banqueting and carolling in kitchen and in hall 
When the little waif of Christmas-tide was little lord 
of all! 


Years passed and found Sir Christmas page in royal 
Richard’s train. 

And bonny, gallant cavalier in Hereford Harry’s reign. 


When Wild Prince Hal turned stately-wise and graced his 
father’s throne. 

Sir Christmas Dene of Castledene to lordliest fame had 
grown : 


THE CHRISTMAS STORY -NIGHT 281 


In battle brave, in council grave, in courtly grace bedight : — 
Never had twain a soothlier son nor king a hardier knight. 

That sent the lonely baby life to cheer their lonely days. 

Sir Wilfrid and his Ladye lived God’s providence to praise 
Their years sped on in happy hours to honored age serene — 
Thank Him who led the Christmas waif to the lights of 
Castledene ! 


Captain Storey rose, and walking to the hall 
window, stood looking out upon the starlit, frosty 
night. Camp seemed to be disappointed when he 
missed his father’s voice from the chorus of 
praise. But presently the captain returned to his 
place, and as he looked at Camp we saw that his 
eyes were misty. 

“ It is your mother’s gift,” he said, softly, 
laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “ I have 
a little sheaf of her verses to give you. Campion ; 
she might have made a name for herself, but that 
she died so young, so young. Only eighteen 
when you were born, boy ! ” 

As he spoke, I seemed to see the girl-wife, the 
young mother, lying dead, like the violet-eyed 
wanderer in Camp’s ballad, while beside her 
laughed her baby son, — our Carhp. The tears 
were in my eyes, and over our merry group a 
solemn hush had fallen, when Grandpapa tact- 
fully opened a new lead, asking the boys about 
their sports and studies, and calling up reminis- 


282 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


cences of his own college days. Presently he 
was telling us a story of the Civil War, which 
“ reminded ” Captain Storey of a Sioux ambush 
and a regimental escapade. Then they drifted 
into army talk, the comparative merits of the 
regulars and the volunteers, the efficacy of disci- 
pline and so on, until Brose grew weary. 

“ This is story-night, Captain Storey,” said 
he. “ Please tell a Christmas story. It can be a 
soldier story, if you like, you know,” he allowed, 
graciously. 

It was upon these terms that Captain Storey 
told us the true story of Mercy Steen and the 
hero of Castle William. It was the last story of 
that Christmas story-night; it is the last, but — 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE QUEER CHILD^S PRISONER 

Mercy Steen was just nine in December of 
the year double-nine,” 1799. What an old lady 
she’d be were she living to-day — and what a 
sight! Hook-nose meeting shoe-horn chin over 
toothless gums, eyes faded away between cordu- 
royed wrinkles, hair cremated to thin wisps of 
ashen gray, hands — but why go on ? Time was 
kinder to Mercy than to let her outlive herself. 
Let us peep at her as old Father Time painted 
her at the close of the eighteenth century. 

Here’s her portrait by Peale. A quaint, pretty 
little Knickerbocker maid, in a short-waisted, 
long-skirted, puff-sleeved gown. Was there ever 
so brilliant a blue as is laked in Mercy’s pictured 
eyes? How well it accords with her gleaming 
brush of bronze curls and the white-rose texture 
of her dimpled face! A charming little lady! 
Perhaps her expression is a bit too serious, for all 
its innocence; perhaps her eyes are deeper than 
283 


284 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


her nine years would seem to warrant — perhaps ! 
Certainly Mercy was not an ordinary little girl. 
People were wont to say that the commandant’s 
only daughter was old-fashioned, precocious — 
“ a queer child.” 

The Queer Child and the only Prisoner soon 
became fast friends. Not that they were able to 
exchange much conversation at first, for his posi- 
tion disqualified him for social amenities, but his 
daily exercises in the castle yard, and Mercy’s 
meanderings in the corridor before the grated 
guard-room afforded a few opportunities. In 
the beginning these were restricted to a little 
friendly nod and a cheery greeting. Then the 
little girl’s heart yearned toward the sad-eyed, 
soft-spoken man, whose every word and gesture 
indicated gentle breeding. 

“ He’s out o’ the common. Miss Marcy,” said 
Sergeant Considine. “ He’s been in some trouble 
at home. I’ll be bound, an’ nothin’d do but he 
must get into more divilment over here.” 

“ Divilment? ” queried Mercy. 

‘‘ Beggin’ your pardon, that’s the Irish for — 
for mischief. Military mischief, to be sure, an’ 
that’s a thing any gintleman can engage in if he 
likes the risk. But sure he’d be a loss if there 
was anybody at all, at all to lose him.” The ser- 
geant paused, remembering the commandant’s 
strict orders that the word “ execution ” should 


THE QUEER CHILD’S PRISONER 285 

never be mentioned in the too sensitive hearing of 
the Queer Child. 

’Tis heart trouble’ll be after taking the Pris- 
oner off,” he concluded, vaguely. But look-a- 
now. Miss Marcy, ye’ll better be asking the com- 
mandant’s leave to confab with the Prisoner. 
Your father’s gintle with you, me little lady, 
but he’s mighty particular, too.” 

The Prisoner gave her the same counsel. 

“ Your father has the right to forbid you to 
speak to me. Pray get his good-will.” He spoke 
almost pleadingly. “ My own little girl must 
be quite as tall as you by this time; my own 
little girl whom I never shall see again ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” Mercy’s sympathetic sigh was mourn- 
fully deep. I know ! You have -the heart 
trouble. So many prisoners have died of that. 
Is’t not strange? One day they would be so 
strong and healthy-looking, and then the next day 
came the coffins. Sometimes two or three died in 
one day. And I felt very, very sad, but not so 
sorry as I should if you — Oh, but mayhap you’ll 
get well,” she resumed, gaily. You are so big 
and so strong. You are the biggest man that I 
ever did see, and you’re just as good as good, I 
think ! I’m going to pray God every morning and 
every night that you may live and be happy with 
your little girl over the great sea.” 

The commandant was the sternest man in the 


286 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


service, an inflexible martinet, who had never vio- 
lated a promise or commuted a sentence. He had 
a soft spot in his heart for his motherless daugh- 
ter; to all else he was adamant. But even the 
Queer Child had some difficulty in persuading 
him to accede to her request. “ You know I like 
so few people, but I do like the Prisoner,” she 
argued. “ And, father, he has a little girl at 
home — a little girl like me! He’ll never see 
her again, he says. Sergeant Considine says it’s 
because the Prisoner is going to die of the heart 
trouble. Such a great, strong, tall man ; is’t not 
a pity? He is like the giant Goliath, only that 
he is so good. Ah, how sorry his little daughter 
will be when she hears that the Prisoner is in his 
coffin! Oh, dear! oh, dear! Father, let me be 
his little friend ! It is for so short a time. Ser- 
geant Considine says the Prisoner will die before 
the New Year.” 

“ Sergeant Considine, being Irish, is apt to say 
too much. Go, you may visit the Prisoner — 
no, stay; I will go with you.” 

Great was the Prisoner’s surprise when he saw 
the commandant of the castle outside the grated 
door of the guard-room. Mercy looked at her 
friend and nodded ever so slightly. The com- 
mandant did not relax his habitual frown. 

Prisoner, my daughter has taken a fancy to 
visit you now and then. I have given her per- 


THE QUEER CHILD’S PRISONER 287 

mission, which I hope I may not have cause to 
regret. Despite all that has happened — ” 

The pale giant flushed to the roots of his yellow 
hair. On my honor as an English gentle- 
man — ” he began, but paused, for the command- 
ant’s hard face was lanced by a sarcastic smile. 

By the memory of my mother,” continued the 
Prisoner, more humbly, “ I swear that no word 
of — of all that has passed, or aught that is to 
come, shall be spoken by me. I thank you, sir, 
for this boon — ” But the commandant, waiving 
courtesy, gave a curt nod and departed. 

After that the Prisoner and the Queer Child 
often talked, and sang together, and exchanged 
books through the grating. The Prisoner was 
fond of reading, and from her father’s scanty 
collection Mercy procured for him odd numbers 
of the Spectator and the Toiler, a well-thumbed 
Shakespeare, Pope’s Homer, a Rasselas, and a 
Burns. These, with the Bible, Poor Richard’s 
Almanac, a classical dictionary, and a few vol- 
umes of military science, constituted all the avail- 
able literature in the castle. Libraries were few 
and precious when the Republic was young, and 
newspapers were making no affidavits about cir- 
culation. News of the outer world drifted in 
slowly when steam power and telegraphy belonged 
to the great undiscovered. 

One day in mid-December, when the tall. 


288 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


brawny Prisoner and the little Queer Child were 
taking afternoon exercise together in the castle 
yard, the commandant received by special message 
an official packet sealed with black. Sad news, 
indeed ! The great Washington was dead ! The 
flag was hung at half-mast, and the chapel bell, 
old and cracked as it was, tolled for a full hour. 

The fort was a relic of the old Dutch 
supremacy, and everything pertaining to it had 
become decrepit. “ ’Twould be a good work to 
pull it down altogether,” grumbled Sergeant 
Considine. “ Castle indeed ! Th’ old barracks is 
that shaky ’twill hardly hold up the flagpole. 
An’ if there was a Prisoner of any spirit cooped 
up here, he’d have no great task breakin’ the 
coop, I’m thinkin’.” 

The Irish soldier’s irritatioi^ had almost trea- 
sonably overcome his discretion, for the Prisoner 
was within hearing, a fact which Considine pre- 
tended to ignore, as he continued his grumbling. 
“ But, of course, the fort is on the island, an’ 
the island is well' guarded, if ’twas only by the 
water. — Miss Marcy, your father do be wantin’ 
you. An’ you, sir, orders is you’re to stay inside 
hereafter ! ” 

Mercy was gone. The beginning of the end,” 
murmured the Prisoner. 

If I can send a line to any creature, sir, or 





A/ . 






fvr |V>»,^ 


Sscf^^ ^ 


“THE COMMANDANT RECEIVED AN OFFICIAL PACKET 


SEALED WITH BLACK. 



THE QUEER CHILD’S PRISONER 289 

if there’s anything at all I can do before — or 
after — ” 

Thank you, sergeant. Nothing, nothing. 
My own shall never know how I died. Let them 
think that I perished at sea. My name is already 
dead.” 

Sure, I know we haven’t your true name. 
An’ that’s the mystery of the mischief.” The 
sergeant was beginning to mutter to himself 
again, when the Prisoner spoke, huskily: 

“ The little one — she will not know ? ” 

“ She’s to go to the grandmother’s in the city 
beyond to keep the Christmas.” 

“ And when she returns I shall be — ” 

The sergeant nodded, and began to whistle to 
give vent to his general dissatisfaction, as the 
Prisoner was marched to the guard-room. 

A week before Christmas the black frost 
gripped the country. So intense was the cold 
that window-panes snapped like threads in a 
blaze, and the hardiest sleigh-horses fell dead 
by the wayside. She’ll not go to the grand- 
mother’s in this weather,” muttered Sergeant 
Considine. “ An’ the commandant’ll go on with 
the black work, for he never yet separated the 
minute from the hour. Though how he’ll keep 
her from knowin’, I don’t see, she’s that fond 
of the Prisoner. The Lord have mercy upon him ; 
a gallows death is a shameful end for a gintleman 


290 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


like him! Ah, but many a brave lad in the old 
land went the same road last year — an’ them 
with nothin’ on their souls worse than the love 
of holy Ireland I ” 

On the 23d the intense cold was lessened by a 
thick, furry fall of snow. The frozen river was 
a white field between the city and the island. 

The weather’s like an Antrim woman’s temper,” 
growled the self-communing sergeant. Now 
it’s this, now it’s that, and ’tis a wise man can 
foretell its high and low, so it is. But she’ll be 
goin’ to the grandmother’s now, — and her boat 
will be the old sled ! ” 

To his amazement, Sergeant Considine was 
ordered to accompany the party, which included 
Mercy and two negro slaves, the little girl’s old 
nurse, and the gardener-groom. 

“ He’s fearin’ I’d help the Prisoner,” was the 
Irishman’s first thought. “ Me, an American 
soldier, assist the enemy of me country — of both 
me countries ? — an Englishman ! Though I’m 
that sorry for him an’ that mystified about him, 
I feel like — like runnin’ away to France an’ 
listin’ under young Bonaparte. Now Gineral 
Washington’s dead, what’s the use of bein’ an 
American soldier anyways ? — a rusty fixture in 
a tumble-down old barracks ! ” 

Very grim was the sergeant’s face as he 
mounted beside Sambo on the clumsy old sleigh. 


THE QUEER CHILD’S PRISONER 291 

The commandant was bidding Mercy good-by, 
and the surgeon, a stout, merry, peace-idle vet- 
eran of the Revolution, awaited his turn. The 
Queer Child was a pretty picture in her bearskin 
coat and cap and her deerskin leggings and 
moccasins. ‘‘Oh, the Prisoner!” she cried. 
“ Father, I must say good-by to the Prisoner ! ” 

“ I believe you must,” muttered her father. 
“ Perkins, Murray, bring the Prisoner here! ” 

He came between the guards, a blond giant 
towering above their heads. His good-by was 
beautifully solemn in its very cheerfulness. 
“ Take good care of the Prisoner, Doctor 
Hervey ! ” cried the Queer Child. “ Try to cure 
his heart trouble, won’t you? Good-by again, 
father!” 

Slowly the Prisoner turned toward the 
castle. The commandant clasped his little girl in 
a farewell embrace. Considine was first to see 
what was happening, yet though he sprang from 
the sleigh with the agility of a deer, the Prisoner 
was before him. The great block of stone, carved 
with the arms of Holland, and which for more 
than a century had retained its place of honor 
at the summit of the western pillar, was toppling 
over. The keen Black Frost blade had split the 
cement. “ This way ! ” shrieked Doctor Hervey, 
and “Come out here!” at the same moment 
yelled the sergeant. Father and daughter stood 


292 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


still. It was only the fraction of an instant, and 
then their bewildered senses realized that a mighty 
arm had pushed them out of danger. But who 
was the giant stretched there motionless, the 
blood welling from his bosom? Alas, the poor 
Prisoner ! 

“ Glory be to God ! Glory be ! ” shouted Con- 
sidine. “Here’s the death of a hero! an’ the 
death your own lady-mother might have wished 
for you, ma bouchal 1 ” 

The emotional Irishman was on his knees sob- 
bing. The doctor knelt, too, to examine the un- 
conscious giant. “ It may not be death,” said 
the good little man, with a praiseworthy attempt 
at professional coolness. “ Ah, the shoulder is 
badly crushed ! ” He put his ear to the Prisoner’s 
heart. 

“ If you please, I don’t believe the stone more’n 
grazed him.” Private Perkins was speaking. “ I 
never see anything like it. He just pushed the 
commandant and Miss Mercy with one hand, and 
he kind o’ heaved the stone aside with his shoul- 
der.” 

“ Is he dead, Hervey ? ” The commandant’s 
voice was unnaturally low and gentle. 

“Not he I He’ll pull through all right. A fine 
type of a man — splendid physique — eh. I’d for- 
got ! But it’s a pity — a genuine pity to sacrifice 
him.” 


THE QUEER CHILD’S PRISONER 293 

The Prisoner opened his eyes wearily. 

“ Not dead? Dying, then? ” he asked, faintly. 

The doctor shook his head, and the sufferer’s 
eyelids closed again, while tears coursed dQwn 
the pale cheeks as he murmured, in a dreary 
monotone : “ I did not intend self-murder ; but 
when I lost sense I hoped it was my worthless 
life going — ” 

“ I can’t stand this ! ” cried the little doctor. 

Steen, we were lads together, you and I ; let 
me speak ! ” But he couldn’t speak, after all, and 
Considine’s ever-ready tongue came to the rescue. 

The doctor would be meanin’ that the morrow 
is Christmas Day, sir. For the sake of Christ, 
sir!” 

“ What do you mean ? ” cried Mercy, who all 
the while had been held rigidly by her father. 

He is better; Doctor Hervey knows he is in 
no danger.” 

The commandant loosened his nervous clasp, 
and bending, whispered : 

** Johnson ! I say, Mr. Johnson ! ” No re- 
sponse. 

'' Try Hilton,” suggested Considine, in tones 
unnecessarily loud. 

Who calls me? ” The sad gray eyes opened 
again, and the Prisoner sat up straight, making 
a wry face as the lacerated shoulder ‘‘ spoke in 
pain.” 


294 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ I am saying ' Pardon.’ Do you hear ? I 
must secure your pardon! You have saved my 
life and the life dearer than mine own.” 

The commandant paused, struggling with emo- 
tion, and Mercy, as bewildered as ever, looked 
appealingly at Considine, who was laughing 
through his tears. 

‘‘ Tell her, doctor, that the fall of the stone has 
cured the Prisoner’s heart trouble forever an’ 
ever, amen. Ye won’t? Well, then. I’ll be after 
tellin’ her myself. There they go. Nabocklish. 
I believe I’m actin’ commandant this day I 
Sambo, you’d better turn the horses toward the 
stable. Don’t you see Miss Marcy followin’ the 
Prisoner-Gineral an’ his staff into the castle? 
She’ll not leave the island this Christmas. Glory 
be, it’s the happy day we’ll be havin’ the mor- 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE BACK PORCH 

When we were small folk, we used to hold 
some very profound discussions. One of these 
was, “ Which is the saddest thing to say ? ” 
Frank thought ‘‘ Nevermore ” the essence of mel- 
ancholy, and my favorite saddest phrase was 
After many years.” I said that change must 
hold sorrowful surprises for us. After many 
years the young and blooming grow old and 
wither, and the old people wither and die. But 
Frank held that Nevermore ” was more hope- 
less. We appealed to Nana, who did not find 
either especially sad, she having her own pet 
phrase of melancholy, which was, “ God be with 
you ; good-by forever ! ” 

Time proves all things. Let us look at the 
Story-Book House after many years.” It is 
October, mellow, beautiful October, the jewel- 
month of the American year. The mountain 
roadsides are fringed with chicory, blue and 
white, and with starry asters, white and purple; 

295 


296 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


the slopes are ablaze with goldenrod; toad-flax, 
wild carrot — Queen Anne’s lace ” — and ever- 
lasting-flowers are running races across the fields ; 
tall, velvet-skirted mullein-stalks are crowned 
with yellow blooms ; the sweet evening-primrose, 
fearless of the gentle October sun, remains 
unclosed all day now; the morning-glory is the 
glory of the evening as well, its purple chalices 
open wide to the delicious warmth that is not 
heat, to the coolness that is not cold. The poke- 
bushes are rich with the pendulous clusters of 
black berries from which the country folk obtain 
ink for their scanty correspondence and irregular 
accounts; Jack-in-the-pulpit has preached himself 
into a bunch of red berries close to the ground; 
the wild rose-bushes are red-berried, too. The 
milkweed pods have burst, the white downy silken 
seed-messengers are flying hither and thither; 
we have captured bagfuls of them for the filling 
of sofa-pillows. 

And oh, the crimson and golden glory of our 
trees! the maples, with every leaf a flower, the 
yellow oaks, the sumachs blazing blood-red along 
the roadsides ! Everywhere the squirrels are cut- 
ting their teeth upon the nut-trees; you can 
almost hear their gnawing; perhaps you could 
but for the autumnal music, tenor and baritone 
of tree-toad and katydid, soprano chirping of 
cricket, all rather faint now, but tuned to concert 


THE BACK PORCH 


297 


pitch at evenfall. It is the glorious Indian 
Summer, but the days will be growing colder and 
grayer with the lengthening nights. Almost time 
to close the doors of the Story-Book House! 

In the garden the monthly roses sweeten the 
paths; we shall have roses next month, too; 
some years, we have gathered a few of our fra- 
grant ‘‘ ever-bloomers as late as mid-December. 
There is a wealth of China asters, but the glory 
of the autumn garden is centred in the beds of 
cosmos, great, vari-colored sunbursts of bloom. 
Gladiolus and tuberose have passed their prime; 
already we have prepared our lily clumps and 
crocus beds and our tulip and hyacinth borders 
for the spring. Eight months of the year our 
mountain garden is fragrant and aglow with 
bloom; for the rest of the time we are content 
with our greenhouse tropicalities. 

The back porch runs all across the width of 
the house, in true Southern fashion, just as the 
kitchen is detached from the residence proper. It 
was Grandmamma who had the passage between 
kitchen and dining-room roofed and glassed into 
a pantry. So separate is it from the cook’s 
quarters that the back porch is quite as attract- 
ive as the verandah. You see, our desks are out 
here yet ; we write on the back porch in the morn- 
ings when the sun is on the verandah : we believe 


298 THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 

in living in the open air as long as the weather 
permits. 

Bobo’s rocky-horse and his train of choo- 
choo cars stand peaceably together in the 
corner waiting for their little master, who has 
gone to town with papa and Auntie Nell this 
morning. The Virginia creeper is a glory of 
crimson rambling up the sides of the old porch. 
From the steps you can hear the apples dropping 
in the orchard, and you may see the mile of 
grapes ” — a fruit line of which we are immensely 
proud. We have Concords, Catawbas, Delawares, 
Niagaras, Wyomings, and several other less- 
known varieties, and we have one very sweet, aro- 
matic grape of our own production, which we call 
the Ambrosia, — you know for whom. Dear, 
dear Brose, after all these years, I cannot speak 
your beloved name, I cannot write it without my 
weak tribute of tears to your darling memory, 
little brother of the long ago ! 

Oh, yes, there have been changes and changes 
in the Story-Book House, since that June-time 
on the verandah in the first chapter. We haven’t 
altered the dear old place; we wouldn’t displace 
one stone of its venerable pile, one tree from its 
hallowed setting. But the lawns are velvet- 
smooth nowadays, the garden and orchard are 
given luxuriant care ; we have introduced electric 
lights in the house and on the grounds; we have 


THE BACK PORCH 


299 


built a greenhouse; we have restored the old bil- 
liard-room and the conservatory, the stables, and 
the kennels, and in one corner of the great roomy 
old garret we have fitted up and colonized an 
aviary, which is one of the wonders of the latter- 
day Story-Book House. The schoolroom is un- 
changed; the nursery is still the pet room of the 
house. To the library we have added new books, 
a new cabinet, and a telephone. No other 
changes in the Story-Book House? Alas! that 
this were all. ‘‘ After many years,” after many 
years we look back, and some of our milestones 
are tombstones : it must be so in the happiest life. 

To take up the last threads, and to gather them 
into the knot of finis ” — that is what I must do 
this balmy October morning on the back porch of 
the Story-Book House. 

Well, Frank and Camp were graduated with 
honors ; the unclassified honor of class popularity 
belonged to Frank, who made the reputation of 
the football eleven in the year 189-, and whose 
“ sublime nerve,” as the reporters put it, helped 
to send Harvard’s crew flying ahead of Prince- 
ton, Cornell, Yale, and Pennsylvania in the re- 
gatta at Poughkeepsie the following year. 

His work in class was not quite so brilliant ; an 
athlete seldom has time or taste for the grind of 
regular study. But Frank learned quickly all 


300 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


he wished to learn, and forgot nothing. As 
Camp told us, he speedily developed his gift of 
oratory, perhaps because it was natural, and 
came easy to him. With his quick comprehen- 
sion and retentive memory, his ready wit and 
perfect savoir-faire, his mellow voice and hand- 
some presence, you may judge whether or no 
Mr. Francis Curtis Storey found it difficult to 
captivate his hearers whenever he chose to speak. 
The old professors believed that young Storey 
was destined to revive the classic traditions of 
American oratory, but truth to say, Frank has 
none of the grandiose style of the old-time speech- 
makers, and his addresses sound very much 
better than they read. It’s just the contrary with 
Camp. 

Camp — of course he was dubbed Campus as 
soon as he began his undergraduate career — 
Camp was Frank’s mentor. He kept my im- 
pulsive, self-willed, much-flattered brother away 
from dangerous associates; he watched over him 
like an elder brother, — nay, like a father. You 
might think that he was twenty years older than 
Frank, so serious was he in his guardianship. 
They quarrelled often. I’m sure, but Camp’s cool- 
ness generally brought Frank to his senses. 
Camp was reasonably interested in athletics ; 
shell, gridiron, and gym were but means by which 
he kept himself in training for the mental work, 


THE BACK PORCH 


301 


which, to him, seemed to be the most important 
part of college life. He made no records on field 
or river: he was content to be first man of his 
class, — ‘‘a regular grind, old Campus.” 

During the boys’ first Christmas vacation, we 
learned that we were to lose dear Uncle Papa. 
You recollect my telling you in the Christmas 
Story ” chapter that Uncle Papa had been sum- 
moned to Washington on Christmas Eve? The 
law firm which had traced him to Storeytown 
had strange tidings for Uncle Papa. The day 
after Christmas he made his appearance in the 
Story-Book House, a most dejected Uncle Papa, 
pale-faced, red-eyed, sorrowful. When Grand- 
papa saw that our friend was in trouble he took 
him by the hand. ‘‘ You have heard bad news, 
perhaps ? ” he said. 

'' Bad indeed. Colonel Storey. I have word 
from Colmar in Alsace that my nearest living 
relative, my cousin Emil, is dead.” 

He handed a foreign letter to Grandpapa, a 
communication from a notary, to the effect that 
Monsieur Emil Papelonne, having died unmar- 
ried, the estate fell to the next of kin. Monsieur 
Adolph Papelonne, who was requested to return 
to Colmar for the settlement of the property. 

And Emil was five years younger than I,” 
said dear Uncle Papa, with a sob in his voice. 


302 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


“ Who could think he should be the first to 
die?” 

‘‘Is the estate large?” asked Grandpapa. 

“ Too large for me,” replied good Uncle Papa. 

So, at the dinner given in honor of Captain 
Storey, Uncle Papa was really the man of the 
hour. He had grown so attached to us, and es- 
pecially to little Brose, that his leave-taking re- 
mains one of the sorrowful remembrances of my 
life. We could not be brought to understand 
why he need settle abroad. 

“ Why don’t you sell the property in Alsace, 
and come over here and buy a fine new house? ” 
said Frank. 

“The property is a family estate; it has be- 
longed to the Papelonnes for as long as Mount- 
Stuart has belonged to the Storeys,” explained 
Uncle Papa, with some dignity. 

“ Well, Pm sure I shouldn’t hesitate to sell this 
old place if I wanted a modern house in a live- 
lier neighborhood,” declared the elder son of the 
Story-Book House. Grandpapa looked at him 
with grim displeasure; making no comment at 
the time, he never forgot Frank’s thoughtless 
speech. 

“ Emil should have married,” complained 
Uncle Papa, addressing himself to Grandpapa. 
“ A landowner should be the head of a family, 
certainly.” 


THE BACK PORCH 


303 


“You will go home, and marry some nice 
young girl ? ” Uncle Papa shook his head. 
Madame looked at him for an instant, and then 
turned her eyes away, as Grandpapa repeated, 
“ Yes, a nice young girl, and you must bring 
Madame Papelonne on a visit to the United 
States, while I am still master of MountStuart.” 

Uncle Papa took the train for New York the 
next day, and sailed for Antwerp. We have 
never seen him since, but we have not forgotten 
him. He used to write to Brose regularly, always 
over the old signature “ Uncle Papa.” But the 
letters ceased for a time, and then, one day, we 
received a flat package from over the sea, and 
over the Rhine. Opening it, we found a large 
photograph of dear Uncle Papa, all dressed up 
in frock coat style, and beside him a pretty, 
plump. German-looking young girl wearing a 
white veil and a wreath of orange blossoms. So 
Monsieur and Madame Papelonne settled down 
in the old house, and there is little fear that law- 
yers will have to advertise again, for next of kin, 
for Uncle Papa has two fine, fat little sons of his 
own at this writing. We mean to visit him the 
next time we go to Europe ; we should have gone 
before, but really, Alsace is terribly out of the 
way. 

After graduation Frank entered the law 
school, and Camp set to work to get his M. D., 


304 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


from the University of Pennsylvania. Not that 
Campion Storey ever wished to be a doctor: he 
studied medicine merely in order to satisfy his 
father, who, like many other fathers, very sagely 
believed that the profession of letters is just no 
profession at all. Indeed, Camp always main- 
tains that his medical knowledge has been of in- 
valuable service to him in his work. Long before 
he had done with pillule and scalpel, he was 
the author of several “ little things ” in the mag- 
azines. Trifles, mostly; quatrains, triolets, ron- 
deaux. 

When Frank was ready to enter the law-firm 
of Curtis and Curtis (now Curtis, Curtis and 
Storey) in New York, Camp held an appoint- 
ment as resident physician in St. Roch’s Hos- 
pital, at Washington. Before the year’s end, his 
first play had been accepted by the Mansfield man- 
agement, and so our young doctor never gained 
more than his hospital practice, for ‘‘ The Man 
of Many Markets ” ran one hundred nights in 
New York alone, and Doctor Campion Storey’s 
portrait was full-paged in all the illustrated week- 
lies that season. He has written a play every year 
since, and only one of these has been shelved. 

Mrs. Campion — “ Aunt Alma,” as she wished 
us to call her — was very proud of her 
nephew’s success. Her great fortune was to go 
to him at her death : she was very anxious to see 


THE BACK PORCH 


305 


him settled “ suitably.” So, when he sought the 
society of the beautiful Miss Moncrieff, daughter 
of the millionaire Senator, Aunt Alma was de- 
lighted. Grace Moncrieff had looks, birth, cul- 
ture, wealth: she was just the bride for Campion 
Storey. So far as I could see, however. Miss 
Grace distributed her favors equally, although, 
if she seemed to show any preference, certainly 
Camp and Frank were the most fortunate among 
her many admirers. Camp and Frank! — the 
conjunction turned me cold with apprehension. 
Was there to be ill-feeling between them, after 
all? 

I had an excellent opportunity for observing 
them during our house party the following June. 
It was a small gathering; Madame, as usual, en 
route to Quebec, helped me to receive and enter- 
tain our guests. Miss Moncrieff and Mabel 
Webster arrived in charge of Mrs. Campion; 
Nellie and I had two school friends, Brenda 
Forrester from Baltimore, and Janet Babbington, 
a cousin from Richmond. Besides Camp and 
Frank and Brose, — dear Brose was a great fel- 
low of eighteen, then, with West Point in easy 
view, — we had John and David Curtis from 
New York, and Doctor Webster, a cousin of 
Mabel’s from Philadelphia. 

Frank had grown to be a perfect Adonis,” 
as Brenda Forrester said; tall, well-built, blond. 


3o6 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


He was — and is — exquisitely neat about his 
dress, and most exact regarding its formal suit- 
ability for the occasion in hand. No one looks 
so well as he in golf and tennis flannels, in boat- 
ing ducks, in shooting leather, in Prince Albert, 
Tuxedo, or claw-hammer; his very smoking 
jacket seems to be the fatigue uniform of a 
prince. And, indeed, that one word “ princely ” 
most aptly describes the appearance of the Hon- 
orable Francis. He makes all the rest of us 
look like snobs, confound him ! ” grumbled David 
Curtis. 

This was an exaggeration. Frank’s associates 
were all gentlemen, and looked it. David himself 
was a dear boy, a handsome, manly fellow, won- 
derfully manly indeed for a musician. For David 
Curtis had an extraordinary' gift : he could charm 
the most thoughtless of us into a dreamful hush 
as he sat there at the piano in the twilight, com- 
pelling divine harmonies from the keys. At such 
times he used to look at me if I were within reach 
of his deep, dark eyes, — gazing until I felt that 
his very spirit borne on the wings of sweet strains 
was melting into my soul. Ever since I left 
school, David had been my most loyal admirer; 
latterly he had grown very serious; twice he had 
asked me to be his wife; and I, doubting myself, 
could not as yet give him a final answer. Frank, 
in his usual careless, self-absorbed way, had no 


THE BACK PORCH 


307 


idea that David was striving to become his 
brother-in-law, but Camp took the most brotherly 
interest in our affair. 

You could not call Camp an Adonis. He is 
tall, — six feet two, — an inch and a half taller 
than Frank. His shoulders are quite square, and 
his legs tremendously long. He is — to use his 
own phrase — “clean, but not neat.” He has 
never worn a frock-coat in the evening, nor an 
evening coat before six p. m., but in minor details 
of dress, he has none of Frank’s almost feminine 
exquisiteness. 

Camp has a firm, kindly face, a massive fore- 
head, quick, watchful, hazel eyes, and thin silky 
brown hair. He is an omniverous reader, but his 
liking for outdoor exercise balances his inclination 
for study, so that his physique is in no way 
inferior to his mental make-up. His fondness for 
horseback riding amounts almost to a passion. 
Ever since he grew up he has owned good horses. 
He is fond of all kinds of animals, however ; — 
you should see his magnificent dogs! On the 
whole, you will perceive that Camp is a fine fellow, 
quite as attractive, in his way, as our handsome 
Frank. Camp is deep; Frank is open. Frank 
has a temper easily aroused, and as easily soothed ; 
Camp’s temper, when awakened, is a raging fire 
held under manful control. 

So much for the two suitors of Miss Grac^ 


3o8 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


Moncrieff. I was most uneasy about their un- 
fortunate rivalry as the days went by. The third 
evening I was so distracted that I said “ no ” to 
David Curtis without thinking of what I was 
doing. It was his third refusal. Tm afraid you 
mean it, Stella,” he said, gently ; “ I shall go 
home to-morrow.” 

“ No, — wait,” said I, irresolutely unhappy. 
“ Something may happen to help me to make up 
my mind. Indeed, David, I don’t know myself ! ” 

Something did happen, something quite unfore- 
seen. 

The next day I saw that I had reason to be 
sorry for poor Camp. For Frank was really in 
love with Grace at last; hitherto he had been 
playing at admiration. And I knew that he would 
not permit any one to. stand in his way; he had 
not the faintest idea of sacrificing his feelings 
for the benefit of Campion Storey. He exerted 
himself to please; Grace was fascinated; indeed, 
few could resist Frank. 

Madame saw, too, and she was vexed. “ Your 
brother is handsome, clever, but he is not nearly 
so — so — what shall I say ? — so character-full 
as Campion. The girl must be blinded in the 
eyes of her mind. I wish it had been so that 
Campion had fallen in love with you, Estelle. 
Cousin, — bah, a third cousin! No, as you say, 
you are like brother and sister. But I could wish 


THE BACK PORCH 


309 


it were otherwise. He will break his heart for 
this Miss Moncrieff; his feelings are too deep.” 

Too deep for Madame. The engagement was 
announced at dinner that evening. Aunt Alma 
was furious with Camp, and inclined to be resent- 
ful to Frank, but my oratorical brother soon won 
her to his side. 

I hope you will be happy all the days of 
your life, my beautiful new sister,” I said, as 
I kissed Grace. 

“ How can I help being happy with Frank? ” 
she made answer, her lovely eyes alight with pride 
and joy. 

“ But, oh, Grace, poor Camp ! ” 

“ My dear little magnolia-blossom, I couldn’t 
marry both of them. He’ll get over it after a 
time: more than he will have to recover from 
the news of my engagement ! ” Her radiant 
egotism was a thing for me to wonder over, but 
who could blame her, so beautiful, so admired? 

Where was Camp ? I found him in the farthest 
corner of the verandah, a cigar between his 
fingers. He did not seem to know that it had 
not been lit; his head was bowed. From the 
drawing-room windows on the other side gay 
voices floated out, but here were silence and sad- 
ness. 

'‘Won’t you come in. Camp? Oh, Camp, I 
am so sorry ! ” 


310 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


'' I know,” he said, his voice husky with re- 
pressed pain. But I can’t stand it ; I must 
go away. I think I shall go to London for a 
few years. I have to see about the English pro- 
duction of my play, in any case. Don’t waste 
your pity on me, Stella; I’m a born fighter.” 

“ We shall be sorry to lose you,” I murmured. 

But you will come back to us heart-whole, or 
maybe — maybe you’ll see some lovely English 
girl — ” 

Never! ” he stormed. “ How you misjudge 
me ! There never was, — there never will be 
but one. I don’t think I’m very conceited, but 
if you could know how I have looked forward — 
Well, it is wrong to talk this way now. Dear 
Stella, dear little sister, I hope you may be as 
happy as I wish you to be. Is the date set? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t think they’ve decided that yet,” 
I answered, my heart aching for him. 

They?” 

** Frank and Grace.” 

“ What have they to do with your marriage? ” 

My marriage. Camp ? I shall never be mar- 
ried, I think.” 

“ But David Curtis — ” 

“ I have just refused him for the third time. 
Camp, Camp, did you, do you — wasn’t it Grace, 
Camp ? ” 

Oh, Stella, little white flower of my heart I 


THE BACK PORCH 


311 

it has never been any one but you. Shall I go 
to London, Stella?” 

What did I say ? Well, I knew, all in a moment, 
that I loved him dearly and for ever. I couldn’t 
have dared to tell myself so much while I thought 
he belonged to another. “ Camp, I am the hap- 
piest girl in Maryland,” I whispered. You shall 
be the happiest \voman in the world, if I can 
make you so,” my great, brainy, tender, gener- 
ous Camp made answer. And he has kept his 
word. 

How surprised they were when my tall be- 
trothed brought me in on his arm, and stood smil- 
ing at them. Grandpapa guessed in an instant. 

Campion ! ” he said ; and said no more, look- 
ing his question. 

This young lady declares that she can never 
change her name,” said Camp, with one forgiv- 
ably triumphant glance at David. Miss Storey 
has consented to be Mrs. Storey.” 

Oh, you sly little magnolia-flower ! * Poor 

Camp ’ indeed ! ” cried Grace. I think she be- 
lieves to this day that I was merely a consolation 
for her loss. 

“ It might have been worse,” admitted Mrs. 
Campion, proceeding to scold us both for what 
she was pleased to call hoodwinking ” her. 

“ It is perfect, perfect ! ” exclaimed Madame, 
in rapture. 


312 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


I could see that Grandpapa was wonderfully 
pleased. You will not take her away from me, 
Campion ? ” he pleaded. And I said that I could 
never be happy anywhere but in the Story-Book 
House. 

There was a very fashionable wedding in 
Washington early in October that year, when 
Miss Moncrieff was married to Mr. Francis Curtis 
Storey. A week later Campion and I were mar- 
ried quietly in our own dear little mountain 
church. We went off to Montana for a short 
wedding-trip, and my father-in-law, then Major 
Storey, came home with us for a visit. 

A sorrowful piece of news awaited me. Pear 
Nana had changed my wedding-robes for the 
travelling-gown; she would allow no one else 
to have a hand in my dressing that happy day. 
She had kissed me fondly, with “ God be with 
you — good-by ! ” — she did not add the “ for- 
ever ” of her saddest phrase, but forever it was 
to be. They found her next morning, smiling and 
peaceful, calmly at rest at the end of her faithful 
life. She had died during the night, without 
warning and without pain, the easy death of 
serene old age. 

Grandpapa missed her sadly; she was the 
one link between the old life and the new. After 
Christmas Doctor Cleary came to see us, and he 
and I stood together at Nana’s grave, still clover- 


THE BACK PORCH 


313 


green that mild December day. The years had 
aged our Student doubly beyond their length of 
time : he was a grave man, full of responsibility, 
and weighted with the cares of a great city parish. 
He seemed to have grown away from us, so many 
and deep were the daily interests of his life, but 
he and Grandpapa remained as intimate as ever. 
At great inconvenience to himself, he travelled all 
the way to MountStuart twice during that winter ; 
he was most uneasy for Grandpapa’s health. He 
made Camp promise to send a telegram in case 
of danger. Of course they kept all their anxieties 
from me, and, indeed. Grandpapa had more 
vitality than they thought, for he lived a full year 
after their consultation. When my baby was 
placed in his arms, he murmured, God be 
thanked, I have lived to see my children even 
unto the third generation ! ” 

He would have the baby named Ambrose, al- 
though we wished our first-born to be called 
Calvert Cecil, after Grandpapa. We thought 
then that he meant to perpetuate the memory of 
his only son, my father, but afterwards, oh, after- 
wards we believed that his desire was prophetic! 
For Brose — I might as well tell it now, though 
the very telling is pain inexpressible to me. 
Brose — is — dead. There ! I have said it. So 
young, so brave, so beautiful, so loving — my 
own Brose! . . . The words are dancing madly 


314 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


in the crystal light of tears. Oh, I know, I know 
I should be reconciled by this time! but he was 
so dear, so very dear to me. I shall be quiet pres- 
ently . . . and then, then I can tell you . . . 
how he died. 

It was three months after Grandpapa’s death, 
at the time of the Hudson River Railway accident 
opposite the Point. Brose and two of his class- 
mates were just about to return from Garrison 
to West Point by the ferry, when the dire 
catastrophe occurred, the whole train falling down 
the embankment. The cadets, though they had 
but a short leave of absence, hastened to see If 
they could be of any service. They helped the 
surviving train-men and passengers to rescue the 
injured and to remove the dead from the wreck. 
One of the cadets fancied that he heard the cry 
of a little child ; he clambered into the half- 
submerged day-coach, and found there a poor 
woman quite dead, her hair trailing in the water, 
and in her arms, held rigidly high and dry, a liv- 
ing baby. The cadet caught the child to his 
breast and attempted to return through the 
broken window, when, without warning, the 
whole coach overturned on its slippery, sandy 
foundation, and slid into the river. He was not 
drowned ; the doctors said that his head had been 
struck against the side of the car as it overturned, 
killing him instantly. The poor little baby was 


THE BACK PORCH 


315 


suffocated. They found them together, the child 
clasped in the arms of the young cadet. . . . The 
cadet was Brose. . . . 

No, I know I should not mourn; he died the 
death of a hero; he gave his life, though in 
vain, to save another. . . . And our Lord, who 
so loves little children, oh, I know how He must 
have welcomed my brave, pure-hearted brother, 
who passed through the gates of eternity, leading 
by the hand a little child! ... Of such is the 
Kingdom, yes. And some day I shall come to 
be proud of his death ; some day I shall bear to 
hear his name . . . not yet. My little son is 
Bobo; by and by we shall call him by his bap- 
tismal name — Ambrose. There are too many 
memories shrined in the old pet name of my young 
soldier-brother Brose. 

Frank and Grace have been living in Washing- 
ton since Frank was elected to Congress, the 
youngest member of the House, and, his constitu- 
ents believe, the most brilliant. His masterly 
speech on foreign alliances “ placed him in- 
stantly ; whenever he speaks now, listeners expect 
to hear something out of the ordinary, and the 
silver-tongued ” Honorable Francis Curtis 
Storey seldom disappoints them. He and Grace 
entertain largely; they are very wealthy. Mrs. 
Campion was so pleased with Frank’s marriage 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


316 

that she placed half a million to his credit on his 
wedding-day. He has trebled the sum since in 
“ ground floor ” speculation. 

His fortune and his wife’s great inheritance 
place them among the plutocrats of New York 
and Washington. Their New York house is a 
marvel of luxury; their servants are imported 
from England ; they wine and dine every 
European celebrity that comes to these shores, 
and when they go abroad they are entertained 
by the nobility, not for their wealth alone, I 
believe, but because of the Storey and Manus 
and Gratiot ancestry of which Frank has grown 
so proud that he — or is it Grace? — has set up 
coat of arms, crest, and family livery. They have 
no children; whenever they visit us they are 
devoted to our sturdy son, Bobo, and to our baby 
daughter Florence, who is named for Campion’s 
mother. 

Pray do not think that Camp’s aunt was unjust 
when she gave a fortune to Frank, and nothing 
at all to Camp, her near relation. Campion and 
I think that Aunt Alma has a perfect right to 
do what she pleases with her own. And doubtless 
she felt, as we did, that Frank ought to have 
money of his own when he was marrying an 
heiress. Aunt Alma often says : My dears, 

when I die, everything will go to you and to your 
children,” but Aunt Alma is a nice, plump, hand- 


THE BACK PORCH 


317 


some, middle-aged lady, with no more notion of 
death than we have, — hardly so much. We shall 
be satisfied if she continues to take an interest in 
Nellie, who, just now, is her prime favorite. 

My young sister is very lovely; tall and fair, 
patrician in appearance, in manner, in voice. We 
are all very proud of Nellie; Frank because she 
is a thoroughbred beauty,” Camp and I because 
we know that our sister’s mind is as noble as 
her face, her nature as sweet as her voice. Frank 
calls her Goldilocks, but we know her to be Heart 
of Gold. She is a beauty, yes, but she has none 
of the self-consciousness which so often mars 
otherwise perfect beauty. Nellie’s blue eyes hold 
a gentle seriousness, an expression of innocent 
timidity which you do not see in other fair faces. 

Aunt Alma confidently expects her to make a 
great match, but Nellie has made no choice, and 
I fancy that the throng ” of admirers of which 
Aunt Alma speaks so triumphantly bore my dear 
girl immensely, although she is too sweet to say 
so. If she could be spoiled, Mrs. Campion, Frank 
and Grace, and all the “ connections ” would have 
had her head turned by this time, but she is 
always glad to get home. She loves the old place 
dearly, as I do, and as Brose did. Frank, strange 
to say, cares nothing for MountStuart; a new 
brown-vStone mansion in a great city means more 
to him than does the historic Storey House. 


3i8 the story-book HOUSE 

Grandpapa knew this. It was one of the reasons 
(our comparative poverty at the time was an- 
other) why he left the Story-Book House to us 
instead of to his eldest grandson. 

Are we poor? Not at all; we are quite well- 
to-do. Of course, by comparison with the Hon- 
orable Francis and his wife and their millionaire 
friends, we may seem to be quite beggarly poor. 
We haven’t a bit of gold plate; we are content 
with the cumbrous old family silver. I have 
Grandmamma Storey’s jewels, but they pale 
before- my sister-in-law’s “ tiara ” of first-water 
diamonds, her diamond and ruby necklaces, her 
“ ropes ” of pearls. All these seem to belong to 
Grace; they suit her tropically glowing brunette 
beauty, her queenly height _^and bearing. I am 
such a little thing among all my big people! As 
Camp says, there’s nothing large about me but 
my eyes and my views. 

I don’t care much for society, neither does 
Camp, but we like to entertain our friends occa- 
sionally. In the fishing and hunting seasons, and 
at Christmas, the Story-Book House is filled with 
congenial guests, who are good enough to say 
that they consider our mountain house parties 
quite the jolliest aflFairs of the year. But there 
are between-times when we do not care to be 
interrupted. As I said to dear old Madame (who 
still proceeds semi-annually from New Orleans to 


THE BACK PORCH 


319 


MountStuart, from MountStuart to Quebec and 
back, and who, very likely, will continue her pere- 
grinations to the end of her days) : 

We’re not butterflies, Grandme; we are bees. 
Campion and I ; the Story-Book House ought to 
be renamed the Beehive.” 

“ No, it is truly more than ever the Story- 
Book House,” said Madame Grandme. Cam- 
pion, he makes great stories for the player-folks’ 
public, and you, Estelle, you make little stories 
for the little playing'-folk public. Storeys of 
stories, both : mais oui, it is the veritable Story- 
Book House ! ” 

Yes, Camp- is a successful playwright, and I 
— I love to write stories for the growing-up 
people. We work together very often, dramatist 
and story-teller. Although we have little need 
of much money, I have quite a respectable income 
from my little books, while Campion’s royalties 
are nothing less than munificent. The English 
rights of his latest drama, “ A Trusty Villain,” 
have been sold for ten thousand dollars, not half 
of what he has earned in its American produc- 
tion. Campion Storey is famous, and cares little 
for fame. His heart is divided between love for 
his work and love for his home, with all that 
the word “ home ” means to him, his loving and 
well-beloved wife and comrade, his fair, strong 
children, and that dear old nest, sweetly redolent 


320 


THE STORY-BOOK HOUSE 


of past joys and sorrows, overflowing with pres- 
ent happiness, and ready for whatever the future 
may bring — The Story-Book House. 

Dear, dear old house! From verandah to 
back porch, from the spacious attic, with its 
wardrobes and chests packed with musky and 
lavender-scented fineries, some of them dating 
back to the fine old first-Presidential days, its one 
living section brilliant and melodious with the 
bird-life of Camp’s aviary, — from this storied 
garret down to the queer old Colonial cellar, tun- 
nelled with the subterranean passage constructed 
in times of Indian terror, — from north to south, 
from east to west, from chimney to foundation, 
— every stone, shred, splinter of the Story-Book 
House has its own story to tell. So many, many 
stories, and I have told so few ! 

As the old romancers used to say, — : farewell, 
gentle reader! The Story-Book House is only 
a mile from Storeytown ; — travelling is easy in 
pleasant weather and with pleasant company. 
Perhaps we may meet again? In the meantime, 
subtracting eternity from Nana’s sad adieu — 
God be with you ; good-by ! 


THE END. 


N 


MAY 151903 




THE ROVER BOYS 
IN ALASKA 

OR 

LOST IN THE FIELDS OF ICE 


BY 


ARTHUR M. WINFIELD 


AUTHOR OF ^‘THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL,” “ THE ROVER 
BOYS ON THE OCEAN,” THE PUTNAM 
hall SERIES,” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW YORK 

GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 





Books by Arthur M. Winfield 


THE ROVER BOYS SERIES 


THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL 

THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN 

THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE 

THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST 

THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES 

THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS 

THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP 

THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA 

THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER 

THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS 

THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS 

THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM 

THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLL 

THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE 

THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST 

THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR 

THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK 

THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA 

(Other volumes in preparation) 


THE PUTNAM HALL SERIES 


THE PUTNAM HALL CADETS 
THE PUTNAM HALL RIVALS 
THE PUTNAM HALL CHAMPIONS 
THE PUTNAM HALL REBELLION 
THE PUTNAM HALL ENCAMPMENT 
THE PUTNAM HALL MYSTERY 


12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. 

Price, per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York 




Copyright, 1914, by 

EDWARD STRATEMEYER 


The Rover Boys in Alaska 




t 


library of congress 



000ESb4‘^D0A 




